


Freedom, Fairytales, and Other Fun Lies

by OchibaKonpeki



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Arranged Relationship, Communication, Domestic Fluff, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Slow Burn, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, eventually, writer! Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-06-03 01:37:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19453681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OchibaKonpeki/pseuds/OchibaKonpeki
Summary: Peter knew what the document on the desk in front of him said, in so many words. It could be boiled down to I, Peter Benjamin Parker, uncoerced and of sound mind, do hereby sign away my legal rights as a person. He would lose the right to vote, to choose where he lived, to receive government-funded scholarships and other forms of aid, to own property, to make decisions about non-elective medical procedures, to be employed... the list went on. He would be, effectively, property.





	1. O, brave new world!

**Author's Note:**

> So, here is my take on some of the tropes associated with arranged marriage and A/B/O fics, though this story is neither.
> 
> Here are the things I promise you: Poor behavior will not be excused, abusive and controlling behavior won't be tolerated by the main character or cause them to fall in love, and there will be a happy ending. :)

The walls were a dull, depressing yellow that perfectly matched the attitude of the grumpy secretary across the desk from Peter as well as that of the notary in the corner that looked like he might be dead. 

“Name,” she prompted, sounding bored.

“Peter. Peter Benjamin Parker.”

“Date of birth.”

“August 27th, 1998.”

“Beneficiary.”

“May Parker.”

“Relation?”

“She’s my, uh, my guardian. And my aunt.”

It went on and on, hideously boring, then grossly personal, starting with things like blood type and working through his medical history until they got to the sexual stuff. Peter _hated_ talking about the sexual stuff. It was rude, as his uncle would say, for a gentleman to discuss.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Virginity is a social construct,” Peter answered before he could even think, his eyebrows pulling together in irritation. _I’m spending my last moments as a person talking to an idiot_ , he thought, feeling vaguely panicked as the woman leveled him with a flat, blank stare, clearly waiting for a real answer. “... Yes, ma’am.”

Her voice and face were both so profoundly average that Peter could literally feel himself forgetting her as they spoke. “Do you have now, or have you ever had, an STD?”

“I just told you that I’m a virgin,” he said. She looked up from the paper to him, but made no move to write anything. Peter couldn’t _quite_ control his sigh of profound distaste. “No, ma’am.”

“Are you now, or have you ever been, pregnant?”

Peter stared at her, literally unsure of how to respond to a question that stupid. He looked down at his lap, as though maybe she knew something he didn’t, and the notary he’d forgotten was even in the room snorted, making Peter jump. At least he wasn’t dead, though. Peter cleared his throat. “Uh. No, ma’am.”

“Sexual orientation.”

The moment of truth. “I’m gay,” Peter stated calmly. He’d never said it out loud before. He was still buzzing with the thrill of it as she wrapped up with a few last questions, all of them about whether he understood what he was agreeing to. And he did. Then the infamous document was sitting right there in front of him, waiting for his signature.

Peter had written a paper about it in high school. It was really just a legalized form of slavery; much was said in mayoral and senatorial debates about the exceedingly high proportion of Non-Person Humans that “happened” to be black or Latino. _It pulls families out of poverty_ was the typical pro argument. _At the expense of one of their members_ was the unspoken qualifier. As MJ had pointed out, though, all the same could be said of the military.

Peter knew what the document on the desk in front of him said, in so many words. It could be boiled down to _I, Peter Benjamin Parker, uncoerced and of sound mind, do hereby sign away my legal rights as a person._ He would lose the right to vote, to choose where he lived, to receive government-funded scholarships and other forms of aid, to own property, to make decisions about non-elective medical procedures, to be employed... the list went on. He would be, effectively, property. Heritable, vendable, even vulnerable to repossession in the event of his owner going into bankruptcy. 

He would retain some rights, of course. Most were identical to that of a dog; he’d retain the right to food, shelter, clothing, health, and medical treatment. He’d retain the right not to be abused. Sparse few expanded his rights behind that of an animal, most of them to do with reproductive health. He could not be compulsed to have children; were he a woman, he could not be compulsed to abort or separated from his child. Any child he fathered would be born a full American citizen. And he could opt out of any non-essential medical treatment he so chose, which he supposed was a luxury some dogs would kill for. 

What were the rewards? Not insignificant was the prospect of never again being too hungry to move or unable to see a doctor when he was sick. More important, however, was the paycheck. He, himself, of course, could not own anything, including the very generous sum of money that would be paid in exchange for rights to Peter as a Non-Person Human. The money would go to his Aunt May and Uncle Ben, who were experiencing a risky pregnancy and a stage II cancer of the pancreas, respectively. 

It was a lot of money. Enough for the hospital bills for sure. Enough for the funeral if it became necessary. And most likely enough to put his new baby cousin through at least a year of college on top of all that. Or, if he lived, enough money for Ben to start the business he’d always dreamed of and be able to send the new baby to college by his own means. 

For Peter, the choice was clear. Even if Johnson V. the State of New York was “a chilling testimony to the oligarchy the United States has become” and “an affront to every humanitarian principle modern western society is founded upon,” as he’d written in his paper, Aunt May and Uncle Ben were his family and they had already given him _everything_ he had. He couldn’t deny them their right to do the same for his future baby cousin. 

He accepted a pen from the aggressively forgettable secretary and leaned forward to sign the document; the last he’d ever be allowed to sign. He stared down at his name; _Peter B. Parker_ , written in beautiful cursive. _You need a good signature_ , his uncle had told him once, sitting him down to make him practice. _A man is only as good as his name, Peter._ They were going to be devastated when they found Peter gone, when they found the letter explaining where he was left on the pillow...

It must have shown on his face, the grief and terror and all the other emotions, because the secretary put her hand out to stop the notary from writing his own name and looked Peter in the eye. “I can put this through the paper shredder right now,” she offered. 

Peter shook his head instantly. “Please sign it,” he pleaded. But a little shocked gasp was still ripped from his lips when everything was signed and it hit Peter what he’d done. He forced himself to think of the little baby the doctor had shown them on the ultrasound, and of his aunt asking him what he thought of the name Daisy. “It’ll be worth it,” he said, not realizing it was out loud until the notary patted him on the back. 

“It will be,” the man said, his tone perfectly paternal. “Good luck, kid.”

...

All of the tests and screenings after that, all in the little clinic on the second floor, were nearly as mind-numbingly boring as the interview. It sort of took the edge off of the existential horror of knowing he wasn’t allowed to leave. 

Eventually, though, a man who was very clearly not a doctor or nurse walked into the room. He was dressed in a fine suit, sporting iron grey hair and wire-framed glasses. He looked like a businessman, or maybe a professor. Peter was shocked into silence by the way his eyes moved over Peter’s body; some odd mix of critical appraisal, appreciation, and approval that made him uncomfortable, made him feel put on display. 

The man’s hand closed around his elbow and helped him stand, the insistence implied behind it just as gentle as it was nonoptional. The tiles were cold on Peter’s bare feet and he stared numbly at the corner as the man slid his dressing gown down his arms. “I’d like to option you into our luxury tier,” the man said. 

“Good afternoon to you, too,” Peter bit out, his irritation returning to him in a rush. “And frankly, sir, _why?_ ” The luxury tier was reserved for the best of the best; it had been created by and for men operating on the same level as Howard Stark, men who had both the money and the mind to make their weird power fantasy into a reality. Peter tried to stay calm; joining this tier called for a non-essential medical procedure, so he couldn’t be forced into it, he knew.

The man sounded a little amused. “Good afternoon. Is it Peter?” Peter gave a little jerky nod. “You can put your dressing gown back on.” Not keen on waiting to be told twice, he picked it up off of the floor and shrugged it back on, then sat back down on the exam table. He felt more secure like that, more able to level the man with an unimpressed look. “Do you happen to know who I am, son?”

“I _really_ don’t care,” Peter deadpanned. “Kind of have other things on my mind.”

The man nodded politely. “I’m the man who makes fifteen percent of whatever you sell for if we auction you off as a luxury tier NHP.”

Unable to help himself, Peter rolled his eyes. “Why would I agree to get a mind control chip implanted in my head in order to make you more money?”

“I like you,” the man said, but based on his tone, Peter knew that this was an aside, not an answer to his question. “Two things, Peter. One, it isn’t a mind control chip. As I’m sure you’re aware since you signed a document saying as much, the chip merely assists you in bonding to your owner, stimulating anxiety whenever you disobey and releasing ‘feel-good’ hormones when you obey. Oxytocin, serotonin, the good stuff.” He cocked his head to the side curiously, and Peter averted his eyes. “You strike me as the type to struggle with obedience. I quite think you would find this transition far, far easier with a chip.”

Peter’s lips parted—he wasn’t sure yet if he was just going to snap _I know_ or point out that this is essentially a medically induced drug addiction—but the man wasn’t finished. “Two, I might be making fifteen percent, but your beneficiary will be making a little less than twice that amount. And if you sell the way that I think you will, I fully believe that sum could double what your beneficiary is to receive.”

Peter’s mouth snapped shut. Now _that_ was an incentive. He wondered why it wasn’t in the documentation; probably so that people didn’t sign up assuming they’d be optioned and freak out when they weren’t. “... Interesting,” Peter admitted, “But why in god’s name would you think I’ll sell for that much?” Peter was, after all, just an average guy. He knew his virginity technically qualified him for optioning—which was gross and fetishizing for _sure_ —but as far as he understood, these auctions were for men and women who could have _anything_ , and people who can have anything probably aren’t going to opt for plain old Peter Parker.

“I don’t have time to entertain your poor self esteem, Peter.” Eyes widening, Peter looked back up at the man, stunned by rude remark wrapped up in the posh accent and polite manner. His eyes softened a little at the look on Peter’s face and he patted his knee through the thin, papery gown. “I’ve never been wrong, son. What do you say?” 

_I’ve already thrown my life away,_ Peter thought bitterly. _Might as well make the most of it._ “... Sure. No, wait.” He looked up anxiously at the man. “This isn’t a thing where, like, the men with the most money get to beat on whoever they buy, is it?”

The man looked genuinely a little hurt by this question. “No, Peter, we take the safety off every Non-Person Human that passes through these halls very, very seriously. We don’t make exceptions for the elite of the elite, we just sell them the best of our stock. Do you believe me?” 

Peter hesitated, then nodded, feeling a little sick. The man sighed, sounding relieved, and smiled broadly at Peter. “Then we have a deal, son. Your signature is no good here—” Peter leveled the man with another irritated glare at the joke. “—So your doctor will come through here with a camcorder, explain the procedure, and you will verbally agree to it. This isn’t binding, you can back out at any time before you go under for the procedure, it’s just to protect the doctor from litigation. Understood?”

Peter nodded again, and suddenly felt his eyes burn. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I understand.”

“Good boy,” the man praised him, making him bristle. Then he was gone and Peter was free to wipe at his eyes in peace and solitude.

...

“It’s a simple outpatient procedure,” the doctor, a youngish woman with a name he wasn’t able to understand when she introduced herself, was explaining. “We go in through the nose to plant the chip. There will be a little bruising and a little soreness, but you’ll be auction-ready by the end of the week. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” Peter heard himself say. It sounded far away. “How do you sleep at night knowing you condemn impoverished kids to a lifetime of medically-enforced servitude?”

The woman looked _deeply_ unimpressed with his snark. “How do you sleep at night knowing you’ve traded your body for money?”

Peter sat up straighter, anger making his ears burn. “I did this to _support my family_ ,” he snarled. 

She leaned in, looked him in the eye. Her eyes were dark and very pretty, very matter-of-fact as she answered primly, “I do this to put my son through private school and to afford a caretaker for my special-needs daughter. I don’t regret a second of it.”

_Touché._ “Sorry,” Peter forced himself to say. He meant it; really, he did, he was just so upset at everything.

She nodded, accepting his apology with grace. “Do you have any questions that pertain to the medical procedure rather than my personal life?”

“... No, ma’am.”

“Good.”


	2. My profit on’t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You taught me language, and my profit on't is, I know how to curse.

Peter knew, logically, that the chip wasn’t even activated, that he was probably _depressed_ rather than suffering the ill-effects of a scifi mood-altering brain chip, but he preferred marinating in his misery with something, _anything_ external to blame, so that’s what he did. He laid on his cot, flat on his back, staring up at the bunk above him, where he could hear his roommate—a very beautiful boy by the name of Miles—shuffling restlessly. He felt sorry for himself, sorry for his bruised nose and swollen face, sorry for his lack of rights and the future he’d sold.

He heard, distinctly, a sniffle from above. Peter shut his eyes, instantly exhausted by the idea of talking to _anyone_ , but steeled himself and whispered into the dark, “You alright, Miles?”

The kid made a surprised sort of noise. He and Peter hadn’t really spoken much earlier that afternoon; they’d both been processed in the morning and when they’d been introduced, they were both still a little loopy from the anesthesia. As far as Peter understood, most of the NHPs only stayed one night, as there was a waiting list for them and they could usually head off to their new lives the very next morning. He and Miles, though, they’d have to wait for the swelling to go down and the auction to be organized.

So they might as well get to know each other a bit. Peter could almost sense Miles coming to this conclusion somewhere above him. He sniffled again, then, voice a little raspy, a little nasally, “Crying hurts. Have you tried yet?”

Peter smiled despite himself. “No, still in shock, I think. I’ll let you know how it goes, though.”

There was more shuffling, then Miles’s face became visible as he poked his head over the side of his cot. “Good luck with it. I was wondering, Peter, why are you here? I mean, you don’t have to tell me, but that seems like a logical next step in small talk, don’t you think?”

Peter nodded, trying to put on a brave face for Miles, who looked like he really, really needed it. “No, I agree, that definitely makes sense. I’m here because my aunt is pregnant and my uncle is too sick to work. Cancer. Prognosis wasn’t too bad, but chemo has really knocked him off his feet, you know?”

Miles nodded. “No parents?”

Blinking rapidly, Peter murmured, “Nah. They were shot. When I was a kid.”

Miles made a sympathetic noise, paused, and said, “My dad got shot, too. He was a cop. It was only a year or so ago, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Is your mom your beneficiary?”

Miles nodded again, then laid back down on the bed so Peter couldn’t see him. He thought maybe that meant the conversation was over, but he after a moment, he spoke. “She was pregnant when my dad died. My little brother will be six months old next week. We call him Jiffy, but he’s named after my dad. Jefferson.”

“Jiffy is a cute name,” Peter said. He shut his eyes, picturing a smaller version of Miles, with a toothless grin and maybe a bunch of dark hair. It made him smile. “My aunt is pregnant. Little girl. That’s part of why I’m here. I don’t know what they’ll name her.”

“Maybe you’ll meet her one day.”

“Maybe,” Peter echoed.

...

The days passed quickly, in large part because they weren’t allowed to sit down or stop thinking from dawn until dusk. They woke early for breakfast, then headed to the roof to get some sun and exercise. That was followed by odd little seminars about things like tablemanners and etiquette, but also service skills like balancing trays full of drinks, kneeling without bruising your knees, and the proper way to help someone dress.

“Aren’t we being purchased by, like, full grown adults who can dress themselves?” Peter had asked. The question had been roundly ignored, so in turn, Peter refused absolutely to internalize anything he was hearing or doing, _determined_ to be as poorly trained as physically possible for whatever sick fuck thought it was okay to own people. He’d shared this philosophy with Miles one night as they had laid exhausted together on Peter’s bed.

“This is my life now,” Miles had said. “I’m hoping that if I do a good enough job, whoever buys me will treat me nicely. You know, like a person, instead of a...”

The word _slave_ had hung between them, uncomfortable and loaded. Peter had felt the poor kid shaking where their shoulders brushed together, and he’d laced their fingers together. “You’ll be okay, Miles.”

In reality, they were probably less than a year apart in age. Peter was only halfway through 19 and Miles could only be as young as 18. But Miles seemed to take comfort in Peter treating him as a little brother and Peter took comfort in trying to take care of someone other than himself.

...

One day, Peter woke up, showered in the communal shower with Miles and a handful of other young men—Peter wasn’t sure where the women were, possibly in another facility?—and looked in the mirror to realize that the bruising was pretty much gone. While Peter hadn’t said anything, Miles had paused at his shoulder, tying a towel around his thin waist as he surveyed Peter’s face, too. “I heard a rumor that it’s going to be tomorrow.”

“The auction?” Peter had guessed, darkness clenching his stomach as he did so. Miles had just nodded stiffly and turned away.

They didn’t get the chance to talk again until that night. Peter flopped onto his cot, groaning, and rolled into his side against the wall to make room for Miles. It was only a single, so kind of a tight fit, but neither of them were that broad-shouldered. Miles laid down on his side, too, facing Peter, and their fingers brushed together in the space between them. The lights flipped off automatically and Miles whispered, “Can I stay here tonight?”

Peter nodded, rendered mute by the impossibility of being _sold at auction_ that loomed over him. Miles seemed to have no such qualm, though, and his voice was tremulous as he wondered aloud, “Do you think they’ll lead us out onto a stage or something? Or will they just use a picture of us, like in _Get Out_?”

Shifting restlessly onto his back, Peter shrugged. “I don’t know, Miles. That’s a good movie, though.”

Miles hummed. “It’s one of my favorites. It’s one of the reasons I realized I want to be a filmmaker. Wanted to be a filmmaker.”

Peter’s heart sank at change in tense, at the way his friend’s voice trailed off on a note of grief and uncertainty. “I wanted to be a biochemical engineer,” he admitted to the night.

“Sounds hard,” Miles commented. “Do you think it’ll hurt? The chip, I mean. When it activates.”

Peter was pretty sure that it wouldn’t. “No. It won’t hurt.”

“What kind of person do you think will bid for you?”

 _An evil, sadistic, classist fucker who thinks he’s good enough to own other human beings._ “I really don’t know, Miles. I hope he’s nice.”

“You’re gay?” Miles asked, tone casual. Peter stiffened up a little, but nodded. “I don’t know if I’ll get a man or a woman. I’m bi. They said it’s possible it’ll be both, that a couple will take me.” Peter hummed noncommittally. He hadn’t ever considered the idea of being taken in as a third wheel in an established marriage; it sounded to him like a good way to get stabbed by a jealous lover. “Peter?”

“Yeah, Miles?”

“You’ve never had sex either, have you?” Peter shook his head. “Do you think it’ll feel good?”

Peter was suddenly _crippled_ by the mental image of the boy in his bed crying underneath some faceless, monstrous man. The second blow followed the first mercilessly when he realized that his own fate could easily be the same. He forced himself to keep breathing normally, forced his voice to neutrality as he finally answered, “I think it’ll feel good, yeah.”

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” Miles admitted readily. “I’m looking at a whole life in which I’ll never get to choose who I get to kiss. Isn’t that fucked up?”

“You can kiss me,” Peter murmured into the dark between them. Miles was still for a moment, and Peter was just about to retract the statement when he felt Miles’s palm against his cheek, felt the boy’s body push into own. Their lips met halfway; Miles’s were warm and very, very soft.

Miles buried his head into Peter’s chest when the kiss broke. “I liked that,” he murmured into Peter’s standard-issue pajama top.

“You don’t have to stop,” Peter encouraged him, rebellion fueled by anger making his words come out loud. “No one can stop you. We could do anything right now and they would have no way of knowing we aren’t virgins.”

He could sense the uncertainty, the fear in the set of the kid’s shoulders as Peter spoke. He was shaking his head before he’d even finished. “I see what you’re saying, Peter. But I can’t risk my position here just to have the illusion of choosing who I have my first time with. Besides, it’s sort of romantic, isn’t it?” His voice grew quieter. “Being only with one person for your whole life.”

Peter let Miles lace their fingers together. “Sorry,” Peter murmured. “I keep trying to make you be angry with me.”

“I _am_ angry,” Miles corrected him softly. “More than angry enough to keep kissing you.”

Peter felt himself smile, felt himself lean into Miles, lean in to his last opportunity to act like a normal teenager. “Now _that’s_ romantic,” he whispered just before their lips met.

...

“This is creepy,” Peter had said the moment he’d caught sight of the little white robes they were going to be wearing to the auction. “Are you going to rub us nubile catamites down with oil for his Highness as well?” His current handler—a mousy little woman who did not like him at all—gave him a _withering_ look. It was worth it, though, because he was pretty sure he heard Miles snort somewhere behind him.

“Do it yourself,” the girl hissed, shoving a container of lotion at him.

Peter cackled at her back as she stomped off, muttering something about taking her break to one of the other handlers. “Wait, there really is oil?” he called. “I was joking!”

Another handler—the one that had just started rubbing lotion into the hands of a boy named Miguel—cast Peter a pleading look. “Please put it on, we are the ones who get in trouble if you misbehave.”

Peter shrugged, hoping that the action communicated _exactly_ how little he cared, but started lotioning up anyway; he knew, in his heart, that making minimum wage employees’ days more difficult wasn’t exactly going to overturn Johnson V. the State of New York or topple the empire of fortunes built on the sale of NPHs. The stuff was thick and creamy, needing to be scooped from the little jar instead of squeezed out of a bottle, and it smelled so strongly of lavender that it made him sneeze. It also took _forever_ to rub it in; he almost regretted not letting the girl help him as he watched Miles shut his eyes and meditate through the ordeal.

 _I don’t like it when strangers touch me,_ he’d said on the second day, after a handler had bodily manipulated him into a ‘proper’ kneeling position. Peter knew what he meant, but truthfully, he was more bothered by the semi-public nudity; having never really played sports, he wasn’t a fan of locker room clothing etiquette. He’d just quashed the feelings down, though.

 _Stubborn, stubborn,_ he heard Uncle Ben sigh in his memory. _You remind me so much of your father when he was your age._

He’d needed help when it came time to put on the robes. “No, really,” he told the mousy little woman as she grumpily tied things into place. “This is really culty. Are we going to walk in holding candles?” The robe was light, flowy, and hung off of one shoulder; a thick, almost corset-like belt held everything in place. They were only given plain cotton briefs to wear underneath, and, thus far, no shoes had been offered either.

They’d been taken into a different space then, one less humid from bathing. The handlers sat them all on little stools in front of vanity mirrors and began fussing with their hair. “Good luck,” Peter had told his stylist when his shoulders sagged upon seeing the uncontrollable, cow-licked-to-hell mess on his head.

“Let’s try blow-drying it,” the man had said brightly. “Maybe that will... work.”

“Even if it does, it’d just be false advertising,” Peter quipped. He heard another boy laugh at that—James, maybe. He found his eyes drawn again to the side of Miles’s beautiful, elegant face and flawless skin—he could remember what it had felt like under his skin—as they touched up his hairline with a straight-edged razor and worked oil through one second of his tight curls at a time before they combed it out. He could see his fingers clenched in his robe. Peter waited for the stylist to finish blowdrying his hair before he spoke. “Looking sharp, Miles. How do you feel?”

His eyes didn’t open, but the corner of his lip quirked up. “Like a million bucks, Peter. Let’s hope someone agrees with me.”

Peter’s stylist checked his watch and cursed. “Fuck, kid, what even _is_ your hair? I don’t have time to wet it and start over... I’ll have to just lean into it.” He squirted some sort of foam from a silver can into his palm and started working it through Peter’s hair. The end result in the mirror was sort of like if he’d stuck a fork in the outlet and his Aunt was given forty seconds to get him ready to picture day.

“I look like an asshole who spends 45 minutes every morning on his hair to make it look like he doesn’t style his hair,” Peter groaned.

Miles cracked open one eye to look at him and smirked. “Hey, if you shaved the sides and flopped it over a little, you’d have the same hairstyle as _every single_ fuck boy in New York.”

The stylist looked upset by this. “Dammit, I should have done that,” he murmured, fussing with individual locks of hair. “Sorry, kid, this is only like my second week. You look great, though. Are you ready?”

 _No_. “As I’ll ever be.”


	3. Full fathom five

_—bulletproof, bulletproof, you make me so bulletproof, and I’m too far gone—_

“Can you turn that down, Tony?” Pepper asked, exasperated, voice raised to be heard over the guitar and drums. “It’s giving me a headache.”

Tony smirked at the side of her face—she never took her eyes off the road when she drove, such a goody-two-shows—but obediently twisted the knob to reduce the volume to what she called a _reasonable and responsible level_. Seems these days everything was about being reasonable and responsible. “I’m _celebrating_ , Pep. These are my last hours as a real bachelor. I’m about to settle down, start a family—”

Pepper heaved a sigh and turned on her blinker. “You _can_ handle this, can’t you? I’m not going to get a call next week from you saying that you forgot to feed him or something?”

“‘Course not,” Tony assured her. “I had a dog growing up, you know that, right? Nothing bad ever happened to him.”

“Did Jarvis not take care of the dog?” Pepper asked, sounding genuinely curious.

 _Well, yes, he did_ , Tony thought, a fond memory floating through his mind of Jarvis—his family’s late butler and his de facto nanny growing up—politely discussing the matter of a puddle of urine on the floor with his appropriately shame-faced Dalmatian puppy, PJ. _That dog loved Jarvis._ Out loud though, he blustered confidently, “Of course I did. A boy and his dog, you know.”

“Hm,” Pepper responded noncommitally, clearly not sure she believed him. Which was completely fair, considering he was lying. “That’s good, I suppose, though a person is a lot more work than a dog.”

Tony shrugged. “Is it? A dog can’t make itself a sandwich, you know. Or give itself a bath. ... I don’t have to give him baths, do I? That’s not, like, part of the deal?”

Laughing, she shook her head. “No, Tony. You just have to, quote unquote, ‘live domestically’ with him for a half a year and have him talk to the attorney about whether you worked and lived together peacefully. Then you’ll be back at the helm; Tony Stark, rightful CEO of Stark Industries. The prodigal son returns.”

Tony hummed, looking distractedly out of the window as they crawled along 6th. “I really just want to get back in the lab,” he admitted. His hands twitched at the thought.

“We’re almost there,” Pepper murmured to herself. Then, to Tony, “I reserve the right to veto anyone that I think you won’t get along with.”

Tony turned a confused frown to the side of her face, then down at the stack of headshots and biographies in his lap. “Are they allowed to not get along with me?”

Pepper chose not to respond, a look of deep irritation pinching at her elegant little nose. Tony turned his attention to the stack of papers instead, glancing over the array of beautiful, smiling faces, juxtaposed with stats like age, height, weight, allergies. Not much about interests or anything, though, just some vague information like _enjoys outdoor activities_. “Huh,” Tony murmured, attention catching on one portrait in particular. Furious green eyes bore into the viewer, accompanied by uncontrolled, gravity-defying brown hair and a deeply sarcastic smile. “This one looks angry.”

She snorted. “Wouldn’t you be?”

...

There were five of them. They stood shoulder to shoulder on the little raised stage, blindfolded, in white robes—Tony was reminded _viscerally_ of the time that his ill-conceived relationship with a college girlfriend ended when he couldn’t hold in his giggles during a weird sorority ritual involving robes, candles, and chanting—and they each held their own portrait in their hands, the ones from the little dossiers Tony had been reading in the car. They looked somehow smaller in person, diminished by their strange surroundings, their obvious nerves.

His eyes caught again on the picture of the angry boy. He held his portrait crookedly in one hand, his jaw and shoulders set in defiance; his other hand was interlaced with the fingers of the NPH next to him, a stunning mixed kid who wore his hair natural. That one appeared to be shaking; he could see the portrait trembling a little.

“This is a little fucked up,” Tony whispered to Pepper as they settled down onto one of the fine red leather couches in the lounge/barlike room that contained the stage. Other exceedingly wealthy socialites milled about; Tony recognized fashion moguls Wade Wilson and Vanessa Carlysle taking sips from the same cocktail—there was another of the same kind waiting for them on the table in front of them—as well as Adrian Toomes, the CEO of Vulture Satellite Solutions, the conglomerate that had toppled DirecTV. Some he didn’t recognize; old money, most likely, or maybe stock brokers. Or maybe more underground—mafia, or drugs.

“Be polite and look important,” Pepper whispered back. “You’re a shareholder here.”

“Then why aren’t I getting special treatment?” he huffed back.

Suddenly, a manicured pair of hands held out cocktail glasses towards them. “I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you, Mr. Stark,” the woman—a pretty but forgettable older redhead in a cocktail dress—told him apologetically as Pepper accepted both glasses with a mildly irritated expression and sat one on Tony’s knee for him to take. Then she turned a stunning smile to the woman who had served them.

“Thank you for the drinks,” she was saying as Tony took a sip of his cocktail (a whiskey sour, as always; he’d mentioning liking them in an interview once in his early twenties and now every asshole trying to impress him served one to him). “We weren’t looking for special treatment, however.”

The woman shook her head quickly. “Nonsense. No son of Howard Stark has to _bid_ on an NPH... If he doesn’t want to,” she added. “Either way, I’d be pleased to arrange a little privacy for you to interview one or all of the boys, courtesy of Mr. Osborn, who sends his regrets that he couldn’t entertain you in person. Has anyone caught your eye?”

Tony’s eye had been caught by a little shuffle of movement as the angry boy whispered something that caused the others to visibly hold back laughter. The kid straightened back up, smirking. “Yes,” Tony heard himself say.

Tony watched the room around him shift to accommodate him. He noticed one of the cocktail waitresses circling the room being directed to stand nearby in case he needed anything. A man in a sharp grey suit who’d introduced himself upon entry as their host and auctioneer tapped a spoon against an empty glass and apologetically announced a delay in the proceedings. And the beautiful, angry boy was being lead away by his elbow, twisting to stare blindly and unhappily in the direction of the kid he’d been holding hands with.

“You’re such a princess,” he heard Pepper hiss as they were lead out of the room by the woman from earlier.

...

He was even prettier up close.

His skin glowed with that flawless, healthy quality unique to beautiful young people, lightly tanned and freckled on the exposed shoulder. His lips were precious, very pink and naturally pouty, though they were, at present, pulled down into a scowl. And his hair—

Tony didn’t realize he’d reached out to touch him until the kid flinched just a little when his fingers touched the wild locks artfully arranged into a semblance of order on his head. Judging by the stiffness of the product in it, this had been exactly as much of a Herculean task as he’d thought. He sort of loved it, though, loved the idea of having an NPH with a distinct feature like that. _Maybe that’s why people adopt corgis and French bulldogs._

“I’m not a dog,” the kid bit out, as though he’d read Tony’s mind. Though still blindfolded, he directed his face towards Tony’s and, he imagined, glared at him. “Don’t pet me.”

Something like fondness curled up in his chest. “I _like_ him, Pep,” Tony told Pepper instantly. “Can I keep him?”

The kid tensed up all over, pulling backwards so violently that he nearly toppled off of his stool. His hand came up to the blindfold but didn’t touch it. “You’re Tony Stark,” he breathed. “Aren’t you?”

He blinked down at the kid, feeling his lips quirk up in surprise. “No, I’m not,” Tony denied gleefully, smile widening as the kid’s lips turned down in uncertainty.

The kid shook his head slowly. “Yes you are,” he insisted, sounding just slightly unsure. “I’d recognize your voice anywhere.”

“Big fan, kid?”

“I was,” he snapped back instantly, anger returning, “Until I found out you’re spending your hiatus _purchasing slaves_ rather than _revolutionizing space travel._ ”

Unphased, Tony turned to look at Pepper’s dubious face again. “He likes me,” he said, reaching out a hand to pet the kid’s hair again, only to have it batted away blindly. “C’mon, Pep. Look, he’s adorable.”

Pepper sighed, looking between them with an air of profound suffering. “He clearly doesn’t like you,” she said.

“I _really_ don’t,” the kid agreed, sounding relieved.

Tony looked back down at the kid. He was small and delicate and elegant and sharp-tongued and interesting and he looked like he’d rather he purchased by an evil frog king than Tony and _damn_ , if that didn’t work for him. When he looked back up at Pepper, he could already see the beginnings of surrender in her eyes, could hear it in her sigh when she said, “Let’s talk about it after we’ve interviewed another one.”

...

“How much for the one with the green eyes?” Tony asked the woman after two forgettable interviews with other NPHs, both of whom had been aggressively boring and polite.

The woman paused. “... Which one?”

Tony was taken off guard. He hadn’t noticed the color of any other NPHs’ eyes. Had there been more than one with green? “The one with the...” He gestured vaguely around his head.

“The first one,” Pepper explained, sounding pained.

The woman hesitated again, eyes flicking between them. “Are you sure? He’s a little...”

“I’m sure,” Tony insisted. “How much? Actually, I don’t care. Pepper, pay her, will you?”

...

“Wait, so _why_ can’t I just take him home?”

Pepper groaned and rested her forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, putting the car back into park. “Tony, you didn’t listen to any of the instructions, did you?”

Tony hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “Summarize it for me?”

“They are going to bring him to the house because they have to activate the chip. When they activate it, you need to be able to initiate physical contact so that the bond forms properly.”

“I know that part. Why can’t I activate it myself? Actually, do we have to activate it at all? It never really sat quite right with me.”

Pepper straightened up and shifted the gear back into reverse. “They probably can’t let you do it for insurance reasons. And really, Tony, do you want to make this harder on yourself than it’s already going to be? Peter was obviously _not charmed_ by you.”

“His name is Peter?”

“Do you listen to _anything_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m excited to write about Tony being an immature little shit.
> 
> The song from the beginning: https://youtu.be/wKdOrFGojQE


	4. The cloud capp’d towers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ! :)
> 
> I’m getting a lot of reviews expressing concern over the course the story will take. I know a LOT of fanfiction is written by young people who don’t know what’s healthy and what’s not, but I promised you a happy ending and I promise you now that I really mean and understand that. The chip will not be forgiven or forgotten and it won’t be dismissed because of “true love” or whatever other bullshit. I promise! I have set it up to be a source of tension and conflict, not as a meet-cute device.

Peter sat on the ground, his head resting on his knees, replaying the last thirty minutes of his life over and over in his head. The warmth of Miles’s hand in his. The way his fingers had tightened around Peter’s when he was told he was needed elsewhere. The little frightened noise Miles had made when they parted. The silence of the room they had left him in. The terror that had gripped him when the door opened, the humiliation of being pet by someone who hadn’t even greeted him. The realization that the man who had touched him so proprietarily was none other than his scientific idol, the man whose TEDTalk he’d memorized by accident in 9th grade, the great _Tony Stark._

And he had _insulted_ him. Repeatedly. He wondered whether that would cause them to fuck him over on the luxury tier sale. If he cost his Aunt May and Uncle Ben money because of his inability to shut up, he’d never forgive himself. He assumed that this lapse in judgement was why he’d been left here, in the room where Tony Stark had touched his hair, for at least an hour. _The auction is probably almost over by now_ , he thought, dread filling his stomach and making him feel leaden. _Miles had to do it alone. And I’ve probably lost my chance altogether._

He was still blindfolded. It was a little silly, considering he was completely alone, but he’d decided that he might make the situation worse with disobedience, so he’d kept it on. He shivered, and pulled his legs closer to his body; the cold tile was leaching warmth from him. He could go back to the stool, but it had been so uncomfortable and make him aware of all the empty space around him, so—

A door opened, distracting him from his thoughts. “Peter Parker?”

Peter lifted his head blindly. “Yes?”

“You can take off the blindfold.” Peter didn’t need to be told twice. He looked up at the door, seeing the sharply dressed man he’d met a little over a week previously. “You’ve been sold, son.”

“What?” Peter croaked. Dread filled him to the brim, made his eyes sting. “Look, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude to Mr. Stark, I just panicked, please let me participate in the auction. My aunt, she needs—”

The man put out a hand, shushing him, a warm, pleased smile on his lips. “Quiet, son, listen. You’ve been purchased for a _lot_ of money, as much as any NPH has ever sold for. Your aunt and uncle won’t have to worry about anything. Congratulations.”

Peter’s head was spinning. “Who?”

“Who do you think?”

“ _Why?_ ”

The man shrugged, evidently unconcerned with Peter’s struggle for understanding. “I don’t know, son. He really liked you, barely looked at the others. Get up, son, I’m driving you out to his estate.”

Peter struggled stiffly to his feet, woozy from shock. “Do I need shoes?” he asked. Then, his fingers tingling with memory, “Can I say goodbye to Miles?”

The man wrapped a fatherly arm around his shoulders as he reached the door. “He’s already gone, son. Between you and me, though, and knowing who purchased him, I wouldn’t worry too much. And no, you’ll be fine without shoes. I’ll carry you when we go outside.”

Peter was surprised to find that he was crying. He sniffled, rubbing his eyes, staring unseeingly at his bare feet as they walked through the halls. He found he couldn’t stop, even as they reached the front door and he was hefted up into the man’s arms and settled into the back seat of a silver sports car. Peter barely registered the man buckling him in, accepted the tissues placed into his lap without a word or glance of thanks. He couldn’t bring himself to think or speak until he glanced up and recognized the curving twist of the highway in front of him.

“Are we leaving Manhattan?” Peter asked in a whisper.

The man driving started, having obviously been lost in his own thoughts. “Yes. We’re heading upstate.”

“Will it be a long drive?”

“Yes. We have about another hour and a half.”

“Is it okay if I lay down?”

Peter met the man’s eye in the rear view mirror. He looked vaguely pitying. “Sure, son. Get some rest. Things will look brighter when you wake.”

...

For a moment, when Peter woke to the sound of gravel crunching under tires, things _did_ look brighter. One foot still in his soothing dreams about flowing water, he tilted his head, sleepily taking in the towering trees visible out of the window, the dancing shadows caused by their leaves coating everything he could see in beautiful, shifting patterns of late afternoon sunshine. Then the car stopped, and Peter sat up, his gaze catching first on the small lake reflecting the oranges of the sky and then on the large, beautiful wooden cabin with a broad porch and rustic rocking chairs out front and he remembered where he was.

“Oh,” he said, scanning the scene once more. The black Audi in the driveway, the large windows that suggested the building had two floors, and the wildflowers that grew along the shoreline each caught his attention in turn.

“Its nice, isn’t it?” the man said. Peter wondered vaguely what his name was. “I’m a little jealous you get to live here.” Peter met his eye in the mirror again, and his expression must have been as unimpressed as he felt, because the man coughed politely and conceded, “Perhaps that was in poor taste, considering your mood. Forgive me. And please try to fix your hair.”

Obediently, Peter smoothed his palms over his head, though judging by the disappointed sigh the man gave, this did little to help. Peter shrugged at him, then opened the door and nearly stood, stopping himself at the last second. The rocks looked rather sharp. “You gonna carry me?” he asked.

The man nodded, opening his own door and hurrying around to reach in and pick him up. Peter could tell he wasn’t much of a burden; he wasn’t exactly punching middleweight, to say the least. “Are you ready?” the man asked him as he climbed the three stairs up onto the porch, his footsteps loud on the wood.

“To spend the rest of my life barefoot and pregnant? Yeah, it’s always been my dream.”

The man made a noise of amused disagreement, but before he could respond, or knock, for that matter, the door opened, and the woman from before—based on her voice, but he was almost positive—said, “Come right on in. Welcome home, Peter.”

He was set on his feet. He looked down, smoothing the ridiculous robe into place, then looked up at the woman, lips parting to say something biting, but all that came out was a surprised little, “You’re Pepper Potts.”

She smiled at him—she was prettier in person, or maybe just prettier when she wasn’t wearing her hair back in her usual serious bun—and inclined her head in acknowledgment of his statement. “I am,” she agreed. “Feel free to have a seat or take a look around; I’ll go grab Tony from his office.”

She swished away up the stairs, fast and quiet even in her pumps, and Peter obediently let his eyes roam around the sitting room he was standing in. Everything—floor, walls, ceiling—was composed of light-colored, natural wood, and the downstairs was very open and airy, due in large part to the enormous window that made up the entire back wall. A half wall divided the sitting room from the kitchen and everything was immaculately clean and bright, decorated with rustic, irregularly shaped wooden furniture. Most of the fabric was in shades of white and tan, with thin dark stripes running through it. There were no pictures on the wall.

Overall, it gave the impression of being a guesthouse, or maybe a fancy AirBnB. Or a movie set. Beautiful and comfortable but strangely impersonal.

“What do you think, son?” the man asked as he settled down into an overstuffed brown couch. “Comfortable?”

Peter dug his toes into the plush carpet, eyes fixing at last on the gorgeous view of the lake. “Sure,” he lied, thinking of how easy it would be to disappear into the woods—but it must have shown on his face, because the man leaned forward seriously and lowered his voice.

“Peter, you understand that if things don’t go well here, you’ll go back to headquarters and your aunt and uncle will have to give back all the money they received?”

He refused to look at the man, refused to answer him. He could feel his cheeks reddening; lucky or unlucky for him, though, he was saved by the return of Pepper Potts, with a bright-eyed Tony Stark at her heel, grinning the broad, arrogant grin Peter had always thought was so cool when he saw it staring up at him from magazine covers... _You’re going to have sex with Tony Stark_ , his mind whispered, making his knees buckle. He sat down hard, a little huff of air escaping his lungs in something like a whimper as he did so.

Peter couldn’t catch his breath as his idol strode into the room, dressed in casual clothes, and slouched down onto the couch opposite him, running his fingers through his elegantly greying-at-the-temples hair and smirking rakishly at Ms. Potts, who looked a little irritated as she sat down next to him, shoving one of his knees to the side to do so. “So how does this work?” he asked the room, not bothering to greet anyone. He did, however, wink at Peter, making his mouth dry out and his brain stop working.

“I’ll activate the chip with an injection,” the man in the suit explained cordially, as though Stark was being a gracious host. “You will then need to establish as much physical, skin-to-skin contact as possible with the chipped individual; many clients choose to initiate sex in order to fulfill this requirement—”

Peter’s head was spinning, and he stared hard at his knees at this unexpected news. _I didn’t mean right now!_ the voice from earlier cried out, heard by no one. But Stark broke in then, sounding scandalized. “Really? That’s kind of fucked up. He’s supposed to be a virgin, right? He won’t even be fully conscious after the chip is activated, will he?”

A beat of silence during which Peter’s heart was loud in his burning red ears. Then the suited man continued smoothly, “Sex isn’t necessary. Holding him while you are both nude or nearly nude will be more than sufficient to create the bond.” He cleared his throat and Peter shut his eyes, relieved. “You’ll have the opportunity in the moments after contact is intitiated to give a few simple instructions that he will have a very difficult time disobeying. We suggest you keep these instructions straightforward and few in number.”

Stark made a weird noise in his throat. He heard the woman, Ms. Potts, say, “I think he means things like asking him to be honest or faithful, Tony.”

Peter felt the man next to him shift. “Precisely, Pepper. Then, if everyone is ready?”

Paralyzed, Peter screamed internally, _I’m not ready! I’m not!_ but the real world people around him were saying yes and let’s do this, then and Peter didn’t look up or move or speak as he listened to the man open up his briefcase and prepare the needle. He shut his eyes when the man moved around to his other side, the one with the exposed shoulder, and rubbed over a spot on his arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. Through his anxiety, he didn’t feel the prick of the needle, only the soreness that followed the injection.

For a very, very long moment, nothing happened.

The first sign was color blooming on the backs of his eyelids, dancing shades of blue and pink fading and pulling against each other. Warmth flooded him, radiating out from the queasy, squirmy heat in his stomach; at about the moment the wave reached his fingertips and toes, it was followed by a wave of prickling pleasure that made him gasp, doubling over. His cock swelled so rapidly it hurt and he was panting, unable to catch his breath, unable to understand who or where or why he was, unable to understand the voices around him.

“— _stronger reaction than_ —” He heard someone saying as he slid to the floor, digging his fingers into soft, warm rug there, patterned with brown and tan. He rubbed his face against it, and it burned delightfully, like scratching a swollen big bite. He kept doing it, but then someone hefted him to his feet—they were wearing gloves, he noted through the haze, the tacky plastic of them uncomfortable against his feverish skin—and he could feel his robe sliding down and off. His eyes were open but he couldn’t see. Was his still blindfolded?

He was floating. No, he was being carried, his bare skin rubbing up against some sort of fine fabric, and then he was being lowered—no, he liked the warm, he wanted to go back—but then there was warm down there, too, and he moaned as he settled against an expanse of warm, bare skin, strong arms wrapping around him and pulling him against a broad chest. It all smelled like rain.

“ _What am I supposed to say?_ ” said a deep, beautiful voice underneath Peter’s ear, clearer than the other buzzing voices he was vaguely aware of over his head. _“‘Crave my touch?’ or something stupid like that?_ ”

 _I will_ , Peter thought, dazedly, as he heard the buzzing voice grow higher, concerned. He nuzzled into the neck he’d found, trying and failing to speak. He felt so good, all loose and warm, his world narrowed down to the lovely man who held him.

“ _Oh,_ ” the voice said. Peter was falling in love with it; he could tell because of the way it made his body grow warmer every time he heard it. “ _That makes more sense. Uhh, kid, you listening?_ ”

 _Yes_ , Peter thought, or maybe said, because the voice continued.

“ _Cool. Hm. Always be honest. Always be loyal. Always be obedient. Is that enough? Did I do it right?_ ”

Peter floated on his contentment, on the feeling of completion, of absolution that filled him to bursting. The feeling of purpose. The desire to serve, to please, to obey. Bone-deep knowledge of his own purpose and place. He felt he understood everything and that every atom that composed him had travelled eons to be a part of him in that moment.

The buzzing quieted, and a hand was smoothing over his back, his side, his hair, his face, and he wanted to look at it, this hand he had begun to love as much as the voice that had left him, when the voice returned and said, “ _You’re really beautiful, you know that?_ ”

He burrowed deeper into the warmth around him, sighing, enveloped forever in it. “I think I’m falling in love, Pep,” the voice whispered, and vaguely Peter thought, _my name is Peter, not Pep_. But that was okay, the voice could call him whatever it wanted to. He slept, then, and dreamt he was floating in a lake he knew he’d seen recently but couldn’t remember where. He dreamt he floated only inches below the surface, the light and warmth of the sun penetrating into the water around him and cradling him, painting his skin in light. He felt beautiful and safe and whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, Tony, such a sucker for wanting to feel loved unconditionally.


	5. Our revels now are ended

It would have been, perhaps, something like romantic to wake slowly in the arms of the man who had sworn to protect and care for him until the day he died; the arms of a handsome stranger who had held him through his dreams, who shushed his confusion upon waking. Maybe if he’d woken slowly, he could have ridden the ebbing tide of the hormone rush that had taken him into the beginning of something akin to a mutual attraction. Maybe if he’d woken slowly, the tenderness of the moment would have opened his heart to trusting his new lover.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Peter woke all at once, confused and frightened, having forgotten where he was and who was holding him, and promptly began to thrash against the arms around him. He felt the butt of his fist crack against bone—a jaw—and he was shoved unceremoniously to the ground, landing hard on his tailbone. His eyes were wide open, but blinded by light, and he blinked rapidly as he scrambled backwards until his head smacked against something hard enough his teeth clacked.

“Jesus, kid, do you always wake up like that?” he heard someone say. It sounded like Tony Stark, oddly enough. Was he still dreaming? He was curled on his side, holding his head, and he could hear himself whimpering as it throbbed. A hand touched his hair, and the voice asked, “You bleeding?”

Peter slit his eyes open and looked at the man who’d touched him. Yup. That was Tony Stark alright, holding his cheek and looking rather put-out, and if he was dreaming, it was by _far_ the most fucked up dream he’d ever had. “No,” Peter ground out. “Not bleeding.”

He touched his hand to the throbbing place on the back of his head, though, where he’d smacked it against the coffee table, and when he drew it back around to look at his fingers, there was a little smear of blood. Dimly amused, he watched Stark’s jaw drop open, panic forming in his eyes, and almost laughed when he whipped his head around and called desperately, “Pep! _Pepper!_ Come help!”

Ms. Potts, as in, _the_ Pepper Potts, sitting president of Stark Industries, appeared in the living room as though Stark’s call had caused her to materialize. “Tony,” she scolded, snatching a box of tissues off of the side table and coming to kneel elegantly next to Peter’s sprawled form. “What did you do? Are you alright, Peter?”

Stark’s indignant cry of _I didn’t do anything, he just freaked out!_ overlapped with Peter’s groaned _I’m fine, just smacked my head_ , and she had to repeat her question, smacking Stark’s hovering hand away as she did so. “I’m fine, Ms. Potts. Just hit my head a bit.”

She helped him sit up and leaned his head forward with a gentle hand placed between his shoulder blades. Then he felt her manicured nails parting his hair and she made a little noise of disapproval at what she saw. “It’s not bad, Peter,” she assured him. The gentleness left her tone as she addressed Stark, still sitting on the floor with the air of a man who had _no_ _idea_ what to do. “Go get the first aid kit, boy genius.”

Stark obediently scrambled to his feet, then paused. “... Where is it, again?”

Peter felt rather than heard her exasperated sigh. The throbbing in his head was going down by then and he felt okay enough to laugh under his breath, receiving a friendly pinch to his arm from Ms. Potts for his input. “Under the sink, Tony,” she explained as though he were a small child. “Next to the fire extinguisher, exactly where I showed you.”

“That’s right,” Stark said, presumably to himself, as he hurried away to retrieve it.

“He’s useless,” Pepper whispered to Peter as a thud followed by a curse emanated from the kitchen. Peter smirked at her over his shoulder, wincing at the movement as he did so. She smiled back and continued conspiratorially, “Don’t tell him I said this, but please make sure he takes care of himself. For me?”

 _Be loyal._ Peter’s skin tingled. “Can I be a dick about it?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper towards the end as he heard Stark approaching from the kitchen.

Pepper laughed. She was still laughing when Stark handed her the first aid kit, demanding anxiously, “Is he okay?”

“Of course he’s okay,” she responded easily, her tone comforting. “I’m just going to clean it up so it won’t get infected.” Peter heard the kit click open and the sound of the materials within it being rifles around.

Finally, there was a moment of silence, and Peter took stock of his situation. It was dark outside. He was on the floor of the secret location Tony Stark was apparently hiding out in instead of running Stark Industries or working on any of its tech. A midlife crisis, maybe. Ms. Potts was _so much nicer_ than she seemed during press conferences, though, he reminded himself, she seemed to be comfortable with enabling Stark to purchase a slave. He was almost naked; Tony Stark, who had perched himself on the very coffee table Peter had bashed his head against, was shirtless; it was a gorgeous sight, but Peter wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it. He shut his eyes as Ms. Potts murmured gently, “This might sting.”

There was something that smelled _wonderful_ somewhere nearby and he focused on that instead of the cold and sting of disinfectant being dabbed onto his scalp. “I have questions,” Peter announced softly as Pepper returned for round two of wiping at his scalp with alcohol pads.

“Fire away,” Stark responded distractedly, leaning forward nosily to watch what Ms. Potts was doing.

“Why am I in my underwear?”

Ms. Potts answered him readily. “We initiated the bond this afternoon, which requires skin to skin contact.”

That sounded right. Peter hummed. “Which is why you’re shirtless.” Tony made an affirmative noise. “Did we have sex, then?” Peter asked, feeling a little numb at the prospect.

Stark visibly flinched. “No! You were unconscious for hours, kid, do you really think I’d do something like that?”

 _Be honest_. “Yes,” Peter answered immediately. Warmth pooled in his stomach—the chip, he realized—even as the man’s handsome face crumpled in disappointment. “Do we have to have sex now, then?” he asked, voice carefully neutral.

Stark froze up, looking _very_ upset, and looked to Ms. Potts for guidance. Peter felt her shrug behind him and then Stark’s big, sad puppy eyes fixed on his, dark and wide and earnest. “You have to obey me, right, kid? Well, here is your first command: don’t do _anything_ you don’t want to do with me. Got it?”

Peter couldn’t help himself. He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Then why am I here?” he challenged. “For decoration?”

He felt Ms. Potts sit back, heard the kit snap closed. _You’ve stopped bleeding_ , she murmured, in a tone that clearly suggested she was not trying to distract Peter from his conversation with Stark, who was staring at him, looking a little bemused. “Companionship, I guess,” he said, slowly, as though trying to figure it out for himself. He paused, then tilted his head. “Trying to fulfill the terms of my father’s trust, if I’m being honest, kid. I need to cohabitate with a partner.”

Peter stared at him. His head and tailbone were both throbbing, and his stomach was starting to cramp with hunger, and honestly, he was kind of tired. He wondered if he was misunderstanding something due to his dazed state. Maybe he had a concussion? “Why did you need to _buy_ a partner?” Peter managed, tone derisive. “Did hitting the clubs not work out? Your tinder account get deactivated? Don’t have the funds for an eHarmony subscription?”

To Peter’s _profound_ amusement, Stark looked offended by these questions. He blinked rapidly at Peter, silent, and finally looked back at Ms. Potts over his shoulder. “Pep?” he prompted weakly.

“Confidentiality, mostly, Peter,” she explained, stroking his bare arm in a soothing manner. “We needed someone who could be trusted not to steal company secrets, or—”

“—or tell the media that the real reason Tony Stark isn’t heading the company is because his dad didn’t think he could do it?” he guessed. Stark flinched, ducking his head, and Peter figured he had it nailed.

“I wouldn’t use those words,” Ms. Potts murmured diplomatically, though she didn’t offer any alternative words. Peter watched Stark’s head jerk up, ostensibly to look at the woman kneeling on the floor. Then his head tilted, and he grimaced, shrugging, and Peter wondered what sorts of gestures Ms. Potts was making to prompt these responses.

“Go get cleaned up, kid,” Stark said after a moment, not meeting his eye. “Second door on the right up the stairs is yours, I put some of my clothes on your bed—they probably won’t fit, sorry—and dinner should be ready soon, I think. So hurry back.”

Peter pulled himself to his feet, staggering a little as he oriented himself. He turned and offered a hand to Ms. Potts, who shot him a pleased smile as she accepted the help up. “Thank you, Ms. Potts,” he told her genuinely as he released her hand.

“No problem, Peter,” she assured him.

Peter pointedly didn’t look at Stark as he headed towards the stairs, but the moment he set his mind to thinking about the quick shower he would take before he got dressed, a wave of pleasant, floating contentment washed over him and he nearly stumbled. “Stupid mind control chip,” he muttered angrily to the stairs as it passed.

“What was that, kid?” Stark called up the stairs.

“Nothing, dear!” Peter yelled back, _drippingly_ sarcastic.

...

The room was cute. Small, with plush light brown carpeting and ‘found wood’ furniture. The quilt was soft, a sandy color with a large brown bear silhouette in the center, and the throw pillows had gaudy red-and-black flannel covers. There was a cute little rocking chair in the corner, sharing a side table with the bed, and a dresser along the other wall. It was sort of crowded in a comfy, overstuffed way, and the window would probably have a good view in the day time.

“I can live here,” Peter told the lamp, smiling at the stupid lampshade that matched the quilt. It felt weird to have nothing to unpack, though, and for a moment he just stood in the middle of the room, trying to force himself to understand that this was his life now. He didn’t manage it. He shrugged, thinking it would probably hit him within a few days and he could cry it out in the shower.

He stepped into the bathroom. To his amusement, the shower curtain bore the same bear silhouette pattern. He found fluffy white towels under the sink and brand-new, full-sized toiletries in the shower; they smelled like vanilla and lavender. Peter wasn’t a fan of vanilla, really, but it would do, what with how stiff his hair felt from the pile of product in it as well as the blood. He wasn’t feeling picky; especially when he stepped under the spray of water and was able to luxuriate in the fact that he wasn’t paying the utility bill.

He took a long, _hot_ shower. He emerged warm and relaxed and smelling like vanilla, because life is about compromises.

...

Walking down the stairs, damp, in another person’s ill-fitting clothing, in strange house, to eat dinner with two of the most important tech moguls in the industry, while knowing he was _not legally considered a person anymore,_ was... tough. But whatever was cooking smelled _fantastic_ and Peter hadn’t eaten in at least ten hours, so he focused on that. _Eyes on the prize, Parker._

When he reached the kitchen, Ms. Potts was spooning a thick stew from a large stock pot into white soup bowls and setting them on the counter; Stark was at the little breakfast table, filling glasses with water from a pitcher. It was oddly domestic. “Are you dating?” Peter asked thoughtlessly.

They both jumped, having evidently not heard him approach, and he grimaced apologetically at Ms. Potts, who smiled wide and gestured him towards the table. “Take a seat, Peter, you’ve had a long day. No, we aren’t dating. Just very good friends.” She looked with fondness over at Stark. “He’s like my little brother.”

Stark rolled his eyes, opening a drawer and pulling out spoons and a bread knife. “I’m older than you,” he muttered, looking oddly chastised; Peter realized suddenly that there had probably been some sort of a serious discussion while he was gone and shyly averted his eyes to his feet as he made his way over to the table.

He sat stiffly, watching in a sort of dissociated awe as Stark sawed into a stunning loaf of sourdough. It was oddly beautiful, intimate, and he was suddenly glad the man had deigned to throw on a shirt at some point. Ms. Potts clicked over on her heels to set a bowl on the counter; it smelled amazing, but Peter was distracted from investigating it when the blonde gasped and placed a hand on his shoulder, bending down to address him with an expression of concern. “Peter, you aren’t a vegetarian or anything, are you? Do you have allergies? I can’t believe we didn’t ask.”

Peter was amused by the idea of lying, forcing Stark to accommodate a ridiculous list of allergies, but the idea made him nauseous, anxious, and when his lips parted to lie a dread settled in his throat and choked him. He shook his head, cleared his throat, and, a little shaken, mumbled, “No, ma’am, I don’t have any dietary restrictions or anything.”

_Be honest._

Fuck.

“Good,” Stark said, setting a chunk of sourdough on the little white plate next to his glass. It drew Peter’s attention down to the bowl as they both turned away to retrieve their own. It smelled _heavenly_. The liquid was thick, fragrant, reddish-brown, and Peter could make out large chunks of potato, beef, and carrots, accompanied by onion and fresh parsley. It made his mouth water.

He busied himself with taking a sip of water from the glass to distract from his stomach cramping with hunger as he waited for the other two to join him. “It smells great, Ms. Potts,” he told her demurely as she sat down. “What is it?”

She smiled and set a hand over his on the table. “Call me Pepper, sweetheart. It’s Irish stew.”

“Hope you like it,” Stark added, still a little surly, but Peter could sense it wasn’t directed at him. “Dig in, kid.”

It was _stunning_. Peter barely cut back a moan at the rich flavor of the gravy, and the beef fell apart with the lightest pressure from spoon or teeth. The bread, dragged through the gravy gratuitously, made it even better; it was soft and perfectly sour, the crust delightfully crusty, and he was halfway through the bowl and completely done with his bread by the time he realized that Stark and Ms. Potts had barely begun to eat. He only looked up from the soup long enough to notice when Stark quietly slid his own chunk of bread, untouched, onto Peter’s plate, and rose to retrieve another from the counter for himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter said, turning towards Ms. Potts with wide, apologetic eyes. “That was rude of me, to inhale your food like that. You’re a _wonderful_ cook, Ms. Potts—Pepper.”

Pepper swallowed her bite and raised her eyebrows at him, clearly amused by something. “Eat up, Peter, there’s plenty more. You’re too skinny, anyway. And thank you, but I didn’t make it. I’m afraid I’m a terrible cook.”

Peter felt his face flush at the realization he’d made a somewhat sexist assumption, just as Stark settled down on his other side and bragged, “I made the sourdough, too.”

Eyeing the side of Stark’s handsome face, Peter stalled by taking another perfect bite of stew, chewing on a bit of carrot perhaps longer than necessary. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t _want_ to talk to the man, so he settled on a vague, “Neat. Always wanted to learn to make bread.”

“I’ll teach you,” Tony answered him instantly, grinning rakishly.

 _Fuck_. That already backfired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark kneading dough is something I need an entire 18 month sexy calendar of.


	6. Awake, dear heart, awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony’s song this time, which, incidentally, bops. https://youtu.be/HwRL1LNVTLI

Peter hadn’t slept well.

The fact that Pepper, as it would turn out, didn’t live in the cabin and had to leave had upset him. The awkward silence as he waited to be dismissed to his room by a clearly uncomfortable Tony Stark had unsettled him, too; then the silence of the woods, broken by rustling leaves, croaking frogs, crickets, and the occasional owl—owls actually went _hoo_ , he’d had no idea, and he’d had no idea they were so _loud_ —was so different from the honking and shouting he was accustomed to in the city that he took a long, long time to fall asleep in his new, unfamiliar bed.

So being jolted awake at 7:30am by _blaring_ rock music was a decidedly unwelcome turn of events.

— _THE WINDS OF FORTUNE, DON’T BLOW THE SAME. SHE HAD TO GET UP, AND MAKE A CHANGE. SHE HAD A KID NOW_ —

Peter’s heart began to slow down as he recovered from the shock of waking up to base guitar and drums instead of, like, the sun or his natural circadian rhythm. “What the _fuck_ , Stark?” he asked the ceiling.

— _WITH ALL THE GIRLS I KNOW. HIS BABY MAMA, SHE AIN‘T SO SLOW_ —

Peter pushed himself up out of the bed, groaning, and stumbled out into the hallway, where the music was somehow louder, if that was even possible.

— _I KNOW YOU WANNA HIT THAT, I KNOW YOU WANNA HIT THAT HIT THAT_ —

The music was coming from the last door on the left. Stark’s bedroom, maybe? He still hadn’t been shown around. He slammed the butt of his fist on the door, trying to get the man’s attention over the music. Stupid from sleep, it took him a moment to realize that he wasn’t going to be heard over the music.

— _IS NOW A SHELL, WE’RE RAISING KIDS NOW, WHO RAISE THEMSELVES_ —

Peter smacked his head against the door, shoulders slumping.

— _SEX IS A WEAPON, IT’S LIKE A DRUG_ —

His hand gripped the doorknob and twisted. Miraculously—or perhaps Stark just didn’t register him as a threat—it was unlocked, and the door swung open easily, revealing a bedroom decorated similarly to Peter’s, but with a larger bed and more floor space. The door to the bathroom was cracked open, and steam was rolling out of it along with the music. Irritated, Peter strode towards it.

— _I KNOW YOU WANNA HIT THAT, I KNOW YOU WANNA HIT THAT HIT THAT_ —

Peter triumphantly snatched the man’s StarkPhone off the counter and hit pause on the song— _Hit That_ by some band called The Offspring, apparently. _Creative title._ In the ringing silence that followed, Peter suddenly realized it was a little rude to bust into someone’s bathroom while they were showering. Not as rude as blasting music so early in the morning, but still.

Stark poked his head out from around the curtain, his hair plastered to his head and soapy. “Oh,” he said when he saw Peter. “Did I wake you up?”

Peter rolled his eyes _hard_. “No, not at all,” he said, tone falsely cheerful. “Just wanted to come congratulate you on your impeccable music taste and thank you for being so gracious as to share it with me.”

Stark puffed out his cheeks awkwardly. “I forgot you were here,” he admitted. “Sorry, kid. Won’t happen again.” Peter just stared at him, hoping his eyes communicated _how the fuck do you forget you bought a fucking person yesterday?_ Stark shifted, cleared his throat, and asked hesitantly, “... Need something else?”

Not knowing what to say, but still _deeply_ irritated, Peter just threw his hands up and left the room, shutting both the bathroom door and the bedroom door on his way out.

He stood in the hall. _Now what?_ He returned to his bedroom, staring around at the space blankly. God, he needed coffee. He found a new toothbrush in the drawer in the bathroom—a bamboo brush, ironically packaged in plastic—and further searching through the cabinets eventually produced sensitive tooth toothpaste, purple mouthwash, a hairbrush, and a stick of women’s deodorant. Not for the first time, he wondered who, exactly, had been held in mind when the bathroom had been stocked in the first place. Everything seemed oddly... specific. Especially when he found gardenia scented lotion and charcoal face wash in the back of the last drawer.

Maybe Pepper was supposed to have been the companion originally? Or maybe someone else had been in mind for it? Or maybe some hapless employee had just purchased these things at random. Honestly, Peter could see it going either way.

He didn’t have any additional clothes to change into—looking through the drawers of the dresser had revealed nothing. “I don’t own shoes,” he told one of the empty drawers. “Do you think I’m allowed outside?”

He’d been right about the view. His window looked out over the woods, and in the distance he could see mountains, brilliant in the early morning light. It was so, so green; he could hear birds and see butterflies and bees flitting around the grass below. He sort of wanted to lay down in it.

Peter froze as he heard a door open and shut down the hallway, then light footsteps that stopped just in front of his door. There was silence—Peter rather felt like he was pretending not to exist—then he heard a one-two rap on the door and Stark called, “Hey, kid, you hungry?”

He thought about pretending to be asleep, but the truth was that he was hungry and the idea of pretending he wasn’t made him feel queasy. So he padded over to the door and pulled it open, glare firmly in place even before they made eye contact. “Yes,” he answered shortly.

Stark shifted, smiling hesitantly. God, he was handsome. “Sleep well?” he tried, stepping aside to allow Peter to pass by him.

“Nope,” Peter responded, popping the _P_ insolently as he pushed past the man towards the stairs. “How’d you sleep knowing you’re a modern-day slaveowner? You dream of cotton fields?”

Stark made a little wounded noise that almost made him feel bad. “You signed up for this,” he tried, sounding uncertain, and Peter shot him another glare over his shoulder.

“Do you think I had other choices?” he asked bluntly. “You sound like those assholes who bring up Africans selling captured members of warring tribes to Europeans when people are talking about the American slave trade.” Stark was silent as they both made their way into the kitchen. He looked disturbed, which served him right as far Peter was concerned. He couldn’t help himself; he affected his best impression of a beaten puppy and whimpered, “May I have a glass of water, master?”

“ _Stop it_ ,” Stark commanded him, face flushed with anger. Peter opened his mouth to do exactly _not that_ , but a wave of anxiety washed over him and he twitched, shutting his mouth again obediently. He watched the man take deep breaths, eyes flitting back and forth, and then, in the same no-arguments tone, pointed and instructed him to sit. Peter obeyed, watching the man struggle for a moment with what to do before settling on pulling a glass from the cabinet and a filter pitcher of water from the fridge.

The glass was placed directly in front of him. Stark wavered, looking at Peter as though for guidance, but Peter just held his neutral expression, challenging the man to try and appease him. The man’s hands twitched in indecision; then he turned again, opening cabinets and drawers, and Peter, bemused, watched him fix a bowl of Frosted Flakes and sit that in front of him, too, along with a spoon. He sank down into the chair next to Peter’s then, fixing him with pleading eyes, and begged, “Please eat something and then try to be nicer.”

Peter snorted, but started to eat anyway. He was _starving_. “I’d be nicer if you got me a cup of coffee,” he hinted after his second bite. The man hopped up immediately, and Peter was pleased that he’d managed to both dismiss the man from watching him eat as well as score himself his first cup of coffee since before he’d signed his contract.

Peter was left alone as it brewed, and managed to finish both his water and his cereal before he had to talk. He did feel somewhat better. He watched the rippling sunshine on the surface of the lake through the window as the smell of fresh brewed coffee filled the cozy kitchen. A mug was set in front of him, and Stark hovered for a moment. “Milk and sugar?” he asked, visibly afraid that Peter would snap at him again.

It’s not really what he thought Tony Stark would be like in real life.

Peter shrugged at him, then delicately poured the bit of milk he’d left in the bottom of his bowl into his mug. Stark made a face, to which Peter smirked and mumbled into his first sip, “Waste not, want not.”

Stark waited in a fascimile of patience—Peter could feel the vibration of his tapping foot through the tile floor—until he’d taken a few more sips before he spoke. “So,” he started, stirring his own coffee—black—with his pointer finger.

“So,” Peter echoed. The man grimaced.

“You—” Stark quailed, and visibly cast around for something other that what he’d been thinking to say. “Your hair is kind of crazy,” he settled on, tone friendly. “Do you style it to stick up like that?”

Despite himself, Peter snorted into his mug. “I wish,” he sighed. “It just... does what it wants to do.”

“Huh,” Stark said. “Can I touch it?”

“No.”

They stared at each other. Stark squinted at him. “Okay.”

Peter set his mug down, deciding to cut the man some slack. “So lay it out for me, Stark, what are the rules?” Their eyes met. He saw the corner of the man’s lip twitch.

“You can call me Tony, for one.” He tilted his head. “What do you mean by rules?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know, _Tony_. You didn’t give me shoes. Am I allowed outside? I also don’t have any clothes. Am I going naked? Are we doing the topless maid thing, maybe? What am I allowed to do? I haven’t seen any books or anything... Am I cooking? Because I’ll tell you now, if I’m in charge of cooking, you better like Mac and cheese because I sure as shit can’t make anything else.”

Tony puffed out his cheeks again, thoughtful. “Those are some good points, actually,” he admitted. “All the books are in my study. I’ll move them into a common space today. Of course you can go outside. And... no, you aren’t my maid. I’ll do the chores and cook. What size shoes do you wear?”

Peter surveyed his serious expression as he busily pulled a pad of paper and a pen out of the pocket of his loose jeans. “Men’s seven,” he said, watching the man scribble it down in _utterly_ illegible writing.

“Awesome. Shirt size?”

“... Small.”

“Jeans?”

“I don’t know. Like a 27/30?”

“We’ll try that, we can just order something else if it doesn’t fit.” He hummed, looking down at his notepad. “Need anything else?”

Peter blinked at him. “Socks and underwear, obviously.”

Stark nodded seriously. “Boxers or briefs?”

Shoving down some bizarre amusement rising in his stomach, he shook his head and mumbled, “Briefs. I’ll need a belt, too.”

Stark nodded again. “Of course. What else? Any hobbies you want supplies for? What do the kids do these days, like, skateboard? Is that still cool?”

Bemused, Peter responded vaguely, “Dude, we’re in the woods. Where would I skateboard? Not that I know how.”

“... Fair enough. Do you like to swim? The lake is nice this time of year. Do you want swim shorts?”

“I... Yeah, sure.”

“What else?”

 _God this is weird._ Peter was vaguely tempted to see where the limits were on this, but tried to remain practical for the moment. “I don’t have a lot of hobbies,” he admitted. “Never had time for them. I usually read. Or I do photography sometimes.”

“I’ll get you a camera,” Tony responded readily. “What do you like to eat? Groceries are already here for this week, but I promise I’ll stock up on whatever you want after the weekend.”

Peter blinked at him, trying to decide whether or not to try to explain that he was too poor to be a picky eater. “I’m good with anything.”

“That’s not what I asked. C’mon, favorite foods. Favorite fruit, favorite vegetable, favorite snack?”

That was a direct question, and Peter was starting to know better than to try to avoid answering them. “Uhh. Strawberries, brussel sprouts, and goldfish crackers. In order.”

Stark’s eyebrows drew together. “Brussel sprouts? Really?”

“Roasted,” Peter clarified. Stark made a little noise that suggested he understood. “I’m really not picky, though. Not a fan of water chestnuts or mushrooms, I guess, but that’s mostly a texture thing. Like, I’ll eat them, just in smaller bites, you know?”

“I can work with that...” He was taking notes, diligent. “What about drinks? Do you like juice in the morning? Favorite soda?”

Peter scrubbed over his eyes. “I like orange juice. Not big on soda, I mostly just drink water. Can we stop talking about me now? It’s exhausting.”

Stark frowned at him, considering. “You don’t like talking about yourself?”

“I don’t like the idea of _you_ knowing things about me,” he corrected instantly, sort of enjoying the man’s expression of hurt. But he still softened his tone to something closer to joking as he continued, “So, are you going to show me around the farm, teach me to work the cotton gin and all that?”

Stark sniffed indignantly, but stood. “Sure, kid, c’mon.”

The man showed him where things were in the kitchen, first, inviting him to eat, make, or do anything he liked with anything he found in it. It was well-stocked for baking, he noticed, with an entire drawer full of pastry decoration materials. Then he showed Peter how to work the remote to the smart TV in the living room, explaining that they had internet but not satellite TV due to a personal issue with the CEO of the only provider in the area. He was shown the half-bath on the first floor as well as the linen closet—“If you ever get cold or anything, kid, just grab whatever you like out of here.”—and then they headed up the stairs.

“You already know where your bedroom is,” Stark acknowledged. Then, with a little bit of guilt showing through his tone as he visibly remembered what had occurred earlier in the morning, “And you know where my bedroom is. You’re welcome to come knock and get me any time of day or night. Alright? And the other door is my study.”

Stark didn’t make a move towards the door. Peter raised an eyebrow at him. “Is it a secret?” he asked, a bit sarcastic, but the man shifted uncomfortably.

“Sort of. I won’t forbid you from going in it, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t. And I’ll stay out of your bedroom unless I’m invited in. Deal?”

“Sure,” Peter acquiesced. “That’s not weird or anything. Show me the lake?”

Stark showed him out of the glass back door onto the wraparound porch, showing him how to unlock the screen door. It was warm outside, but shady, and a quick survey of the back porch revealed a hot tub and little metal table with two chairs. It smelled amazing outside, clean and natural, and Peter found he really, really enjoyed the feeling of cool, slightly dew-damp grass between his feet as Stark walked him across the yard towards the dock. “—deep enough to dive off of the end,” he was explaining, when Peter’s eye was by something on the far shore.

“Is that a tire swing?” Peter asked, interrupting the man mid sentence.

He paused, looking out in the direction Peter was pointing. “Oh, yeah, it is. I think the house used to belong to a family with a young daughter. The property line is well into the woods, so feel free to explore a bit if that’s up your alley. Try to stay within shouting distance, I guess?”

Peter nodded obediently, then, eye catching on a small shed out by the gravel driveway, pointed and grinned impishly up at the man, who looked weary before he even spoke. “Those are the slave quarters, right?”

Stark deflated a little. “It’s a workshop,” he corrected, sounding put out. “But don’t tell Pepper, I’m not supposed to have one.”

Peter snorted. “You better hope she doesn’t ask,” he snarked. “I’m supposed to be honest.”

“You’re also supposed to be loyal and obedient!”

Rolling his eyes, Peter started towards it. “What kind of equipment do you have in there, anyway? Can I use it?”

“Mostly robotics,” the man answered him with a confused tone, trotting after him. “Trying to develop an AI. You _did_ say you were a fan. You a tech sort of guy?”

Peter paused, foiled by the padlock on the door, but Stark just stepped up, digging a keychain out of his pocket and starting to shuffle through the keys to unlock it. “Yes,” he said, defensively. “I wanted to be an engineer before fate decided I should be a whore instead.”

Stark glared balefully at him, pausing with the key in the lock. But some of Peter’s excitement and amusement must have shown through, because he cracked a smile, unlocked the door, and joked, “Why not both, kid?” as it swung open.

“Wow.”

It was a miniature lab, full of shining equipment Peter had only seen once, back when his high school took him to tour colleges on a field trip. He didn’t know how _any_ of it worked, but he knew he could figure it out. His fingers twitched at the thought. A hand gripped his shoulder, squeezed briefly, and let go, and Stark, his voice soft and affectionate, murmured, “Be good. Yell if you need me, I’ll leave the window open. And be careful. You might want to wait until you have shoes to do anything serious.”

 _Maybe this won’t be so bad_ , he thought, and immediately, as though in punishment, his mind conjured again the image of his friend Miles underneath some monstrous man, screaming, and his stomach dropped as he listed to Stark trot away across the grass and leaves. Guilt gripped him. Slowly, mechanically, he shut the door, slid down to his knees, and cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Pete. And Poor Tony, doesn’t even know what a privileged little snot he is.


	7. A thing divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I might call him  
> A thing divine, for nothing natural  
> I ever saw so noble.

Tony shut the door to his study behind him, then moved to open the window. The breeze that wafted in was pleasant, a bit warmer than the room and smelling of the woods, something he’d never known he’d come to cherish so much. He could see the unassuming wooden shed, and thinking about his sweet little Peter puttering around inside of it made his chest feel tight.

God, but he was beautiful. Seeing his hair in its full, unstyled glory that morning had been so satisfying. It stood nearly straight up off of the top of the kid’s head, thick and fine and wild, still visibly tangled in the back from sleep, and he’d loved it so much that he was almost unable to summon the will to feel embarrassed that he’d thoughtlessly woken the poor thing up with his music. _Too bad he hates you_ , Tony thought, moving away from the window with a sigh.

Truly, the kid was really funny, even if he was mean. Tony thanked his lucky stars the kid hadn’t yet whipped out an accent like the actors used in _12 Years a Slave_ or anything like that. He rather thought the only reason he hadn’t was that it was offensive and hoped that these sensibilities would hold up.

He was calling Pepper before he’d even really fully formed the thought that he wanted to. It rang only once before she answered, something that never failed to startle him as it cut directly to her voice. “ _Tony_ ,” she greeted, sounding pleased to hear from him.

“Hey, Pep,” he answered easily. Tony missed seeing her every day; her, Rhodes, and Happy, all three of them.

“ _Don’t tell me he’s bleeding again?_ ”

Tony laughed. “No, he’s fine. He’s not happy with me, though. I’m not sure what to do. He’s been making jokes about working in my cotton fields all morning.”

Pepper hummed. “ _You’ve explained that you aren’t putting him to work in the house or anything, haven’t you?_ ”

“Of course.” Tony sat down at his desk with a sigh. “I don’t think he trusts me, though.”

Pepper clicked her tongue at him. “ _Look, Tony, it’s like I told you last night. Just give him time and don’t push anything._ ”

“... I _really_ like him, Pepper,” Tony admitted, scratching the back of his head uneasily.

There was silence on the other end of the phone. “ _I thought you didn’t believe in romantic love?_ ” she teased after a moment, clearly having decided Tony needed a lightened mood more than anything else.

“That’s not what I said,” he whined. “You always twist my words. I _said_ that I think romance novels are bullshit. People don’t just _fall in love_. There’s no such thing as soul mates.”

Pepper snorted. “ _I’m glad your publisher can’t hear you talking like that. Speaking of which, Tony, you better get on finishing that first draft if you’re going to finish the series within the year._ ”

He groaned. “God, Pepper. I’m so bored of it. I have no idea what to write. Maybe my pseudonym can, I don’t know, die tragically of pneumonia or something?”

Pepper laughed; there was not a single drop of sympathy in it, which he sort of vaguely resented. “ _Get to work, boy genius,_ ” she instructed gleefully, and then a beep announced that she’d hung up.

Tony pulled the phone away from his ear and scowled at it. Then he scowled at his keyboard. Then he scowled at the copy of _The Immortal Shore: Part One_ sitting on his desk. Then he scowled at the words on the word document open on his monitor, _knowing_ he’d written himself into a corner, and sighed, resigning himself to backing up thirty pages or so and trying again.

...

Tony paused, feeling oddly shy, his stomach twisted up, outside of the shed, looking down again at the offerings in his hand. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a handful of baby carrots, and half of an apple, cut into slices, adorned the plate in his left hand while the other bore a glass of iced tea. Was it condescending or kind, he wondered, to make the kid something for lunch? What if he wasn’t hungry, or hated peanut butter, or resented him for cutting up fruit for him like he couldn’t do it himself?

He heard something clatter inside and Peter curse lightly, sounding as though he’d hurt himself on something. “Hey, kid,” he called, unable to keep the worry from his tone. There was a pause, and then Peter opened the door, the tip of his thumb in his mouth and surprise in his eyes. Tony frowned at him. “You alright?”

“Just shocked myself,” he explained, releasing his thumb and eyeing the plate suspiciously. “Is that... for me?”

Tony nodded. “Can I come in?”

Peter snorted, stepping aside. “It’s your lab, Stark.” But Tony saw the way his shoulders untensed just a tad as he stepped inside and laid his offerings on a clear space on the bench, and his tone was something approaching friendly as he added, “Thank you, I was hungry.”

Seemingly content to allow Tony to hover, he snatched up one half of the sandwich and took a big bite out of the corner. Tony let his eyes wander over the bench, taking in every object that was out of place—nothing broken and nothing missing—before they landed on the prosthetic, artfully taken apart and the wiring exposed. “I see you found Rhodey’s foot,” he commented, keeping his tone casual.

Peter’s eyes flickered over to the prosthetic. He took a gulp from the glass of tea before he responded. “I wanted to take a look,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. I noticed there were some inefficiencies in the wiring and I was trying to see if they were fixable. I didn’t change anything, though, I was just sketching out some solutions.” The kid passed him a legal pad.

Tony listened to the kid crunch into a carrot as he looked over the design, humming with interest. “The branching is interesting,” he complimented, genuinely impressed. “It might work. Why don’t you test it and see if you get a faster response time, kid?”

Peter frowned at him, looking unsure. “Really? I mean, who is Rhodey? Won’t he mind if I mess around with his prosthetic?”

Tony set the pad down, distracted by the doubt darkening the kid’s beautiful green eyes. “He’s got one already,” he explained. “I’m just trying to make some improvements. He’s my best friend.”

Peter startled a little, recognition dawning, and Tony watched with amusement as the kid rushed to swallow another bite of his sandwich. “You mean Colonel Rhodes,” he said as soon as he’d managed it. He looked back over at the prosthetic with new interest. “The war hero.”

Tony nodded easily. To him, Rhodey would always be his dorky roommate who took himself far too seriously. “You’ll probably meet him.”

They lapses into silence, and though Tony could sense that Peter didn’t particularly enjoy the fact that he was being watched, he ate calmly, finishing off the sandwich and the carrots before starting in on the apple slices. He was looking at one, refusing to make eye contact, when he said lightly, “I know you lied about the stew, by the way.”

Tony was instantly very amused by this statement, and couldn’t fight the arrogant grin off of his face as he prompted, “Oh?”

Peter nodded, green gaze challenging as he looked at Tony. “Yeah. It was already cooking by the time I woke up, and I know for a fact you were with me the whole time I was asleep. So you couldn’t have made it.”

“You think so, kid?”

“I know so.”

They stared at each other. Tony leaned his hip against the lab bench again, crossing his arms as he considered the brilliant boy before him. “I did make it,” he said slowly. “I suppose Pepper helped, though.” Peter opened his mouth—to argue, most likely—but Tony cut him off. “I’d made the bone broth I used as a base the day before. And Pepper and I had planned it around the fact that we wanted to to have a hearty meal and we knew she couldn’t cook. So when we got back in from town, I browned the beef, prepped the vegetables, and laid out all the spices for Pepper to put together in case I didn’t have time to get it started. It actually went on the stove to simmer just before you arrived, though, so all Pepper had to do was bring me a spoonful to taste every so often and I’d tell her what to add.”

Tony paused, enjoying Peter’s irritated expression about having been wrong. “Pepper did add the parsley, though,” he admitted, fighting his smile down. “Under my strict supervision, while you were in the shower.” In his mind’s eye, he remembered Pepper’s confused expression when she’d asked how much to add and he’d responded, _about a handful_ , causing her to exclaim, _Tony, ‘handful’ is_ not _a unit of measurement!_

Peter huffed, looking as though he were still determined to hurt Tony’s feelings. “Why do you cook, anyway? Your personal chef quit?”

Tony shook his head, wondering if he should lie. But he could hear Pepper’s whisper of _earn his trust_ in his ear and opted for honesty. “It’s part of the conditions of the trust,” he explained neutrally. “I have to cook and prepare everything I eat myself. After a month or so of it, I found I really enjoyed it. I have a talent for it, I like to think.”

Peter’s lips twitched. “So that’s why I’m not cooking and cleaning,” he stated plainly.

Tony felt his shoulders slump. “No,” he protested. “That’s mostly because—” _I want to take care of you._ He couldn’t say that. “—I don’t want you to,” he finished lamely.

The kid’s eyebrows rose. “Okay,” he answered, sounding distinctly like he didn’t believe Tony at all. The man opened his mouth to respond, but Peter swayed a little towards him, then jerked back, looking upset. “I’m going to go lay down,” he declared suddenly, reaching for the plate. He looked pale.

Worried, Tony stepped forward, hurt when Peter pulled back again. “You alright, kid? Leave those, I’ll take care of them.”

“I’m fine,” Peter answered instantly. Then he blanched, his hands flying up to his stomach, and his whole body shivered, eyes squeezing shut, breathing labored. When he opened his eyes again, they were _furious_ , and he corrected himself viciously, “No, I’m _not_ fine, and it’s this _stupid fucking chip_ that’s making me _not fine_.”

Tony reached out again, despite himself, cold fear settling in his stomach. “Is there something wrong with it? I can take you to a hospital—”

Peter jerked away again, backing into the lab bench and gripping it hard, with both hands, to keep himself steady. “Don’t _touch me_ ,” he snarled, his eyes fixed somewhere near Tony’s chest. “It’s working _perfectly_ , Stark. Are you going to let me leave?”

The kid was panting, sweat beading along his hairline. Through his panic, Tony saw a solution and snatched at it. “Go inside and lay down until you’re feeling better,” he said, letting his tone suggest it was a command.

For a moment, he thought maybe it would just work and Peter wouldn’t call him on it. He watched the kid release the lab bench and walk jerkily out into the sunshine. He made it about two steps before Tony literally _watched_ the tension melt away from his shoulders, heard him gasp and saw his knees buckle, bringing him to a halt. There was a moment tense silence before Peter looked over his shoulder, glaring viciously, and flipped him off.

His stomach was in knots as he watched the kid go, barefoot with Tony’s pajamas hanging off of him like rags. His mind was stuck on that image of Peter’s face, his angry green eyes and wild hair, the flush of pleasure that had dusted his graceful nose and cheekbones. _Fucking beautiful._


	8. The first man that leaped

Stark didn’t bother him again until late that afternoon. About an hour prior, he’d heard a knock at the door downstairs. Stepping out into the hallway, though, had revealed two male voices below; definitely not Pepper. So he’d gone and laid back down to continue feeling sorry for himself until a knock had sounded at his bedroom door.

Exhausted—and feeling sort of gross now that he’d been wearing his borrow clothes for almost a whole day, and his underwear for even longer—he got up and shuffled to the door, pulling it open to look up blankly into Stark’s handsome, worried face. “Hey, kid,” he murmured, his voice _so_ gentle it made Peter want to fling himself at him. He pulled back on the impulse, ignoring the spike in his background anxiety as he did so. “I’ve got clothes for you.”

He was holding a mid-sized cardboard box. It looked a little heavy, so Peter just stepped to the side and gestured Stark into the room, watching him bend over at the waist to set it on the floor with a muffled thump. Peter nudged the open flap with his knee, catching sight of bundles of fabric and a pair of tennis shoes. He bent down and plucked a bundle of white socks from the top of the pile, turning a lopsided grin on the man. “Master has given Dobby a sock,” he teased.

Peter was taken aback by the handsome smile that took over the man’s face as he rubbed his hand over his beard, chuckling at the joke. “Good one,” he said. Then, looking almost _shy_ —what even was Peter’s life at this point—he’d asked, “Will you come downstairs after you get dressed? Please?”

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Peter analyzed how he felt about the request. He didn’t feel pressure from the chip to accept, he was pretty sure, but there was a sort of social pressure that made him think it would be rude to say no. “Can I shower, first?” he stalled.

Stark nodded, turning to leave, then paused. “How are you feeling, kid? Be honest.”

Peter stared at him for a moment, upset to have been asked. Then, mechanically, he started to speak. “I want to touch you and it makes me angry. I feel nauseous and nervous.”

Tony nodded his head once, eyes downcast. “I was afraid you’d say that,” he mumbled, rubbing his palms together. He turned to leave, saying over his shoulder, “I’m going to see what we can do about it.”

 _Sure_ , Peter thought. _Sure you are_.

...

After showering and wrapping himself up in a towel, he turned his attention to the box, figuring he could further delay his evening with Stark if he unpacked first. The contents were... interesting, to say the least. Two pairs of jeans, one black and the other faded and ripped. A pair of jean shorts? Two pairs of basketball shorts. Then a set of soft t-shirts, with an odd assortment of logos and designs. One had a chart of all the different Nintendo controllers and the years they were released, ending on a Wii remote with 2006 underneath. Another had Gir, the little dog thing from Invader Zim. Another had a charizard emblazoned on the chest; yet another featured the Sharingan pattern on the breast pocket, and another was made to look like a university shirt for Hogwarts...

Finally, it clicked, and Peter couldn’t help giggling. He dressed quickly in the ripped skinny jeans and the tight-fitting grey t-shirt with a green Mario mushroom on the chest and headed downstairs. “Hey, Stark,” he called to the man, catching sight of him at the counter in the kitchen. “Did you pick this stuff out based on my Facebook account from middle school?” He wasn’t prepared, though, for the way the man jerked in surprise at the sight of him, lips parting and eyes scanning him up and down with unfiltered desire. Peter realized very belatedly that Stark had never seen him in real clothes and faltered halfway down the steps, feeling unexpectedly shy.

“What?” Stark croaked, visibly swallowing. He blinked rapidly and stepped around the half wall into the living room, his eyes still on Peter. “Your—you what?”

Someone else cleared their throat. Peter jumped, his eyes landing at last on the heavyset older gentleman with very kind eyes that was seated in the armchair in the sitting room. The man waved in greeting. “Happy Hogan, nice to meet you, Peter. Uhh, maybe, I asked one of the interns to shop for you based on your social media.”

Peter snorted again, his amusement returning. He ignored Stark as he finished walking down the stairs, walking up to the man and offering a hand to shake. The man—Happy, Stark’s bodyguard, he knew—shook it warmly and firmly, gesturing for Peter to sit. “Nice to meet you, Happy... I haven’t used social media since middle school, during my nerdy-emo phase.”

Happy nodded as though this made everything make more sense. “Oooh. You know, I thought you looked pretty young in the pictures.” He leaned in closer. “You look much better without the hair in your eyes and that thing in your lip. I don’t see a hole, what happened to it?”

Peter blushed. “Oh, the lip piercing was fake, I thought it made me look cool but my aunt would never have let me get it pierced for real. I did gauge my ears a little, though.” He tilted his head and let the man look at his earlobe; the hole was mostly closed, but still visible, and he was pretty sure he could still wear earrings if he wanted. “So the T-shirts were based on my ‘interests’ on Facebook,” he assumed.

Happy nodded, starting to speak, but Stark broke in then. “Sorry, kid. I can get you something else to wear—”

Peter shook his head, still grinning with amusement at being given a spiritual copy of his middle school wardrobe. “It’s fine, Stark, it’s fine. No one out here to see me whose opinion I care about.” The tension was instant and, honestly, made Peter’s grin widen. He turned to Happy again. “No offense, Happy.”

The man cleared his throat. “None taken, Peter,” he said, looking up at Stark over Peter’s shoulder with wide eyes. “I better get going, Tony,” he continued apologetically, standing with a little groan. “It’s a long ride back into the city and I don’t like driving at night much anymore. Walk me out?”

Peter was pretty pleased with himself at seeing Stark’s vaguely embarrassed expression as he made an affirmative noise and walked Happy out onto the porch, presumably to discuss the fact that Peter was an ornery motherfucker. They were only outside for about ten minutes, but he took the opportunity to poke into the kitchen and take a look at what Stark had been working on—he was pretty sure it was going to be a stir fry, based on the pile of vegetables sliced into strips and the smell of the dark, fragrant sauce in the large glass measuring cup.

He didn’t look up from examining the bean sprouts when he heard Stark re-enter the house and come to stand in the entryway of the kitchen, and he didn’t look up when the man spoke, sounding tired and frustrated. “Can you at least be nice to me in front of my friends? Call me Tony? Pretend you like me?”

“Why?” Peter asked the vegetables sourly. “So you can pretend that using your privileges to own human beings like pets doesn’t make you a bad person?”

He didn’t see it coming at all; one moment he was slouched against the counter, and the next he’d been spun around and pushed up against it with Stark’s fingers digging into his wrist, boxed in by the man’s other palm slamming down on the counter beside him. Stark was close—really close—close enough to remember that he smelled like rain. Their only point of contact was Peter’s wrist, but somehow he felt the heat of the man’s hand burning in his stomach as well. Stark’s eyes burned into his own, hard and pleading all at once. “Do you want me to send you back?” the man demanded, pain in his voice, and Peter _knew_ , deep in his bones, that this was an offer, not a threat.

The image of Miles under a strange man flashed in his eye again and he didn’t need the chip to force his hand towards honesty. “ _No_.” He tilted his head up to meet the man’s gaze more fully, and he saw the uncertainty and fear he felt reflected in his owner’s face.

Stark sagged at this admission, and his thumb rubbed against Peter’s inner wrist; the action had an effect like smoothing the ragged edges of his anxiety into a soothing white noise of contentment. His eyes slid shut at the feeling—he hadn’t realized how anxious he’d been until the feeling faded like mist in the dawn—and let his head tip forward until his forehead _thunk_ ed into the man’s sternum.

“Kid,” the man sighed, his other hand coming up to cup the back of his head. It was almost like a hug; they stood that way for what had to have been at least a minute, Peter’s mind floating somewhere outside his body, before Stark inhaled deeply and continued, “Can we sit down and talk?”

Peter took a second to regroup, fighting the fuzziness that had taken him over until he found it in himself to nod against Stark’s chest, feeling drained. He felt the body under his forehead brace itself, then step back, releasing his wrist, and his skin cried out to close the gap once more as he numbly watched the man’s eyes look him over again, covetous. Peter blinked at him, once, twice; seeing the conflict and doubt in the man’s expression, he hesitantly jerked his thumb towards the living room, tilting his head in question. Stark nodded silently and led the way.

“So,” Peter started as he sat down on one end of the couch, startled when Stark sat down on the other end. It was a three seater, so they weren’t touching or anything, but it hadn’t been what he was expecting. He turned, pulling his feet under himself and sitting crosslegged with the arm of the chair at his back, as Stark settled so that one knee rested on the cushions and the other foot stayed on the ground. Peter watched the handsome man grimace, scratching the back of his head with his gaze fixed somewhere near Peter’s legs.

“So,” Stark agreed. Then, hesitantly, he glanced up into Peter’s eyes and said, “I need to apologize.” Peter was sort of taken aback by that. Of course he needed to apologize; he’d _bought a sex slave_. But before he could say as much, the man was pushing his palm into his knee nervously and murmuring shame-faced, “I messed up with the commands when we formed the bond.”

Peter blinked at him. “Oh,” he said, feeling distant from the conversation.

Stark didn’t look him in the eye as he continued quietly, “I said something about craving my touch as a joke and I think that the chip has been punishing you because we haven’t had any physical contact since the bond formed.”

That... made sense. It made the longing Peter felt to be held explicable and accounted for the low-levels of anxiety he’d been feeling since just after dinner the previous night. Maybe it even explained a part of his terrible mood. “I feel fine right now,” he thought aloud, unsure he believed what the man was telling him, certainly not _wanting_ to believe it.

“Because I just touched you for a while in the kitchen,” Stark explained. He was the picture of guilt and remorse as he ducked his head and continued lowly, “I called and asked what could be done about it and they said the chip wouldn’t be safe to remove for at least a few months.” Peter felt suffocated. Stark looked up through his dark eyelashes at him, and, tone pleading, asked, “Can you tell me what the chip is like? Please?”

Peter swallowed, looking away, down into his lap. He fiddled with one of the holes in his jeans as he spoke. “I don’t know,” he started. Then, “I guess it’s like, every time I think about breaking the rules you gave me, I feel sort of sick, or tingly in a bad way, or anxious. Sometimes I feel, like, a sense of impending doom, like the beginning of a panic attack.” He glanced up and regretted it; Stark looked like his heart was being torn in half. “Now that I think about it, I’ve been feeling a low level of anxiety pretty much constantly. I don’t feel it right now, though.”

Stark scrubbed his palms over his eyes, groaning. “Fuck, kid, that’s awful. It’s not supposed to be strong enough to make you nauseous.”

“ _Why_ can’t it just be removed?”

“It would mess with your hormones, probably cause a depressive episode, and they’re difficult to remove physically early on because of the healing process of the insertion,” he explained, sounding pained. “Part of it, though, is just that there isn’t much data on the effect of having the chip for such a short period of time; it tends to be pretty rough but it hasn’t happened enough for them to address why and try to fix it.”

Peter couldn’t help himself; he laughed, the sound dry and self-deprecating, and just said, “ _Fuck_ , Stark.” Stark’s hand reached out for his; he pulled it away on instinct, but it made the queasiness return and, slowly, he set his hand into the man’s, letting the feeling of lightness wash over him again, stealing his breath. “When you touch me,” Peter heard himself rasp, “It’s as though you’re wrapping my mind in a warm blanket.”

Stark’s other hand cupped his as well, holding on with an odd desperation, and he met Peter’s eye. “Please, kid,” he begged, voice cracking a little. “Just tell me what to do to make you happy.”

Peter felt his eyes drift shut again, floating, and he whispered weakly, “Just... stop acting like this isn’t fucked up. _It’s fucked up_ , Stark. And be honest with me. I don’t... I still don’t really understand why you needed me.”

He felt Stark’s fingers tighten around his. “My father died about a year ago,” he murmured, voice earnest, pleading. “He set up a trust for me that I have to meet the terms off in order to inherit the company.” He tapped his forefinger against Peter’s first knuckle. “The first one was that until I met the terms of the trust, I had to cook and clean for myself.” He tapped Peter’s second knuckle. “I also couldn’t do anything related to running Stark Industries or developing any of its technologies.” The third knuckle. “Then I had to become successful in a non-science field without using my name as leverage.” The knuckle of his pinky. “And the last one was that I had to cohabitate peacefully with a partner for six months. There was a clause that it could be an NPH and that seemed like the safest option. At the end of the six months, I need you to tell an attorney that we got along and worked well together.”

Peter slit one eye open at the man, taken aback again by the beauty of the man’s eyes, his jaw, his lips. His body felt good and heavy, but he was still sharp enough to pick up on something. “You fucked yourself over, then,” he responded, letting his eye shut again. “Because I have to be honest.”

Tony’s nails dug in, but it wasn’t painful at all, just a light scrape. “Peter, I want you to be able to say that honestly. Please, let me be good to you. Can’t you pretend we’re dating?”

“Pretend we’re dating,” Peter echoed. Dating Tony Stark had been a fantasy of his practically forever. _Being owned by him_ seemed like a wish fulfilled by a tricky genie. In his mind, he heard Miles saying, _This is my life now._

“Please?”

Peter was nearly swooning from light headedness. He pulled his hand back, ignoring the wounded noise the man made. He blinked rapidly through the dissipation of the fog, staring at Stark’s face, his lips, trying to decide if _he_ wanted to kiss him or if the chip wanted him to want to kiss him. A logical voice asked, _Peter, if there were no chip, would you want to kiss him?_ The answer wasn’t clear, really, due to the issue of being owned by the man, so he thought to himself, _would you want to kiss him if you were still a legal person?_

“Yes,” Peter answered himself, and he saw Stark’s eyes widen as he rose up onto his knees, grabbed him by the shirt, and kissed him. It felt like a warm hearth on a cold day and sinking into your own bed after being gone a long time, and Peter luxuriated in it.

Stark’s lips were soft and still from the shock; Peter pulled away before he recovered. “I’ll keep hating you if you give me commands, Stark,” he warned the man roughly when they were nose-to-nose.

Stark blinked a few times, eyes shifting rapidly between Peter’s eyes and his lips. “Okay,” he agreed, voice deep and hesitant.

Peter released his shirt and sat back down, reeling. “I’m gonna go upstairs,” he decided, standing so abruptly he nearly lost his balance. “Call me down for dinner?”

Stark was touching his fingers to his lips, staring at Peter as though he’d grown _several_ extra heads. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. Should be... Yeah.”

“You’re terribly eloquent,” Peter complimented him, consciously keeping the bite out of his sarcasm. Then he walked away, conscious of the man’s eyes on him, conscious of the fact that he’d just kissed the man he’d told Ned less than a month ago was the most attractive person on the planet. His body was tingling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They’re going to have to try to ignore the issues for a while so that they can develop a relationship built on tension and mistrust and it can blow up in their faces around chapter 15. ;)


	9. Now I will believe

Tony was in shock, he was pretty sure. He knew because he went on autopilot, very few tangible thoughts in his head, and suddenly looked down to find that he’d finished slicing the chicken without realizing he’d begun. “Huh,” he said to the pile of raw cubed meat. “I wonder if I washed my hands.”

On closer inspection, though, his wrists were still wet; so, probably, he had. He’d also turned on the stove at some point. He discovered this because he burned his fingertip when he touched the edge of the wok to see if it was hot. “Fuck!” he cursed, shaking out his hand and wincing. He glanced up the stairs, a little grateful that the kid hadn’t stuck around to watch him hurt himself by violating the most basic of lab safety protocols. 

Fuck, the kid. His lips were exactly as delicate and soft as Tony had thought they’d be. Seeing him dressed like a _teenager_ had been—unnerving, upsetting, because he _was_ a teenager. He’d already asked Happy to get the poor thing some clothes that didn’t make him look like Tony would find him sulking and listening to Simple Plan, but the effect lingered. It had been really, _really_ cute, after all, and it had made him feel _filthy_. 

Tony realized he was watching the chicken burn in the pan and stirred it rapidly with the wooden spoon he didn’t recall picking up, cursing again. “I kissed a teenager,” he told the spoon. 

“Do you always talk to your utensils when you cook, Stark?” 

Tony startled badly, and the spoon fell to the counter with a clatter as he turned to face Peter, who stood on the other side of the half-wall with his elbow propped on the counter, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Hey, kid, you scared me,” he said. Then, tilting his head as he snatched up a dish towel to fuss with, “You don’t have to, of course, but... I’d like it if you called me Tony.”

Peter snorted, running a hand through his wild hair. “If you’d told me six months ago that _Tony Stark_ , my number one idol, would ever ask me to call him by his first name, I would have laughed in their face.” 

Despite himself, Tony felt his lips curling up and his stomach grow warm and squirmy at that. “Your number one idol, huh?”

Peter spread out his palms, his expression open and frank. “Since I was a kid. My celebrity crush, too, and my dream boss... I had an unfinished application to one of your internships on my desk when I signed up for this shit.” He gestured vaguely to the room, plainly encompassing his entire situation. “I thought about it while I was upstairs and realized that if I could have chosen anyone in the world to... _buy_... me, you’d probably have made the short list.”

“Is that why you came downstairs so soon?”

“Yup.” He popped the _P_ in an insolent sort of way. Tony liked it, though, and found himself smiling, pleased that Peter had chosen his company for the first time. “You’re burning whatever is in that pan, by the way.”

“What?” The hissing of the oil in the pan registered then, and Tony turned, seeing that Peter was right. “Fuck,” he mumbled, quickly switching his rag out for the spoon again and scraping at the chicken to get it unstuck from the pan. “Could you hand me the veggies, kid? The meat is about done cooking.”

He didn’t look up as he heard Peter pad around to the other side of the camera and pluck the bamboo cutting board from the counter to bring to him. “... Can I put them in?” Peter asked, hesitant, as he stepped up close enough that their elbows brushed. Tony inclined his head in assent, using his spoon to push the meat to the side and make room for the pile of vegetables the kid tipped into the pan, the liquid in them hissing the moment it hit the hot metal.

Steam rose in a cloud, and Tony began to stir the veggies with his spoon, humming in contentment. “Look good, kid?” he asked absently as Peter hovered near the stove, watching. 

He nodded, leaning his hip against the counter. He started to speak, then stopped, then started again, sounding shy. “I only buy red bell peppers when they’re on sale,” he said. 

Tony frowned consideringly, first at Peter and then into the pan. “Are they more expensive than the other colors?” he asked, genuinely curious. He’d never noticed; not that he’d gone grocery shopping himself in years. 

The kid nodded, though, the chip on his shoulder showing itself as he visibly controlled his tone. “Yup. Red, yellow, and orange are $1.28 each, but sometimes they reduce to 98¢. A green bell pepper is only 68¢.”

Tony, however, was sort of distracted by this seemingly arbitrary distinction. “Why?” he wondered aloud, baffled, and Peter shrugged, smiling.

Then he stiffened up. “Oh, I forgot the bean sprouts! Do you need them?”

Tony shook his head, still stirring away. “They’ll get mushy if I add them now. Will you get out plates and forks? Do you remember where they are?”

Peter nodded, humming, and whispered, “I think so,” as he turned; Tony rather thought he was talking to himself. He got the cabinet right on the first try, though, and found the silverware drawer on the second. It made him happy; he was excited for Peter to get comfortable enough to move around the kitchen like it was home. “Hey, uh, Tony? Can I ask you about how you’re developing the AI?”

Surprised, Tony looked over his shoulder. “Yeah. It’s just recursive learning, though, not terribly exciting.”

“Surely you’re doing something interesting to develop it to be benevolent,” Peter responded instantly, his intelligent green eyes insistent. “And what are you doing about the possibility of accidentally grey gooing everything?”

Snorting, Tony shifted to snatch up the bean sprouts and set his bowl of stir fry sauce closer to the stove. “You’re worried about the AI being evil? You can meet her tomorrow, if you want.”

Tony heard a plate clatter; he turned to find that Peter had dropped one onto the table and was staring at him wide-eyed. “ _Meet_ her?” he demanded. Then, eyes widening again, “Meet _her_?”

He turned his head back and tried to project the most coolly arrogant air he could affect as he shrugged, poured the stir fry sauce in, and said, “Yeah, she identifies as female and she named herself Friday. I can’t convince her yet that she doesn’t need to sleep, so she powers off from 8pm to 8am, but you can meet her tomorrow when she wakes up.” 

Peter was looking at him like he was the coolest person on the planet; which, to be fair, he _was_. After that, the kid was all bright eyes and interesting questions, smart and unafraid of challenging Tony on anything, and in the back of his mind he kept thinking, _this would have been really different if he’d just finished his internship application_. 

...

By the time Peter was scraping the last dregs of his second serving off of his plate—Tony was starting to wonder if he should rethink his grocery list to accommodate the appetite of a young man—they’d reached something of a common ground on Tony’s working theory that an AI should be raised like a baby, given intelligence and resources in increments and treated with love. Tony could see that the kid still wasn’t sold on intentionally limiting both processing power and input to mimick human development, he at least appreciated the craftsmanship of it. He’d taken to calling Friday ‘your artisanal AI lady,’ which Tony struggled not to laugh at every time.

They’d fallen into a more or less comfortable silence; Tony’d said what he needed to on the topic of AI ethics and Peter was visibly taking his time to think all of it over. He took the kid’s plate and placed all their dirty dishes into the sink, thinking he’d wait until after his guest went to bed to wash them, and turned, leaning against the sink to watch Peter stare into his glass, deep in thought. As Tony watched, he absent-mindedly took a sip, overtilting the glass and startling as a bit of the water splashed out onto his chin and soaked into his shirt.

“Fuck,” the kid said eloquently, rubbing at the cloth with one hand as the other plunked the glass back down. 

It drew Tony’s attention to his chest and his waist, and how cute the tight little T-shirt was on him, with the nerdy Mario mushroom. “You’re the picture of grace,” Tony teased, keeping his tone casual as he cast around for something to talk about, something to _think_ about other than Peter’s cute nerdy shirt and his wild hair, and what came out was, “Do you want to play on the Nintendo? I think I have one upstairs in the closet.”

Peter’s eyebrows rose, and whatever he was going to say about being graceful was lost to his amused inquiry of, “Did you just call it ‘the Nintendo’? You sound old as fuck.” He paused consideringly, but the smirk didn’t leave his lips as he allowed, “Unless you literally mean an old school Nintendo.”

Tony shook his head, puzzled. “No, it’s a new Nintendo. The new one. Uhh,” his eyebrows drew together, struggling to remember the name of the new console that had come out the previous year.

“A Switch?”

Lightbulb. “Yes! That one,” Tony declared, grinning with triumph. “I got it as a Christmas gift from an ex-employee that I helped snag a job with the American branch of Nintendo’s graphics team. I’m pretty sure it came with a game. The Mario racing game?”

He turned another questioning look at Peter, who was smiling at him with something like fondness. “Mario Kart?” he suggested.

Tony snapped his fingers, nodding as he gestured Peter into the living room. “Yes, that one. I played one of the original ones a long time ago, but I was never really that in to video games. Do you want to play?”

Peter hesitated, then gave a little shrug—as though he were shrugging at something he’d said to himself—and answered neutrally, “Sure, Stark. Tony. I’m going to kick your ass, though.”

Tony thought at the time that this was just teenagerly posturing, but after they’d played a few races—the tracks colorful, dynamic, and confusing, enough to both be fun and give him a bit of a headache—it seemed more like the kid had been preparing him for the learning curve. 

“Not bad for a first try,” Tony said after he came in fifth place on the first race.

“These remotes are too small,” he said after he came in third on the second race.

Then, when an NPC ‘red-shelled’ him when he finally got into first, he said, “That little dog character is a bitch.”

Then, when Peter’s character (Donkey Kong) threw a bomb at Tony’s (the guy from Zelda) and knocked him from 2nd place to 6th, he said, “You’re cheating and you fucking know it, kid.”

To which Peter had responded, cackling as he had been the whole time they’d been playing, “You’re a sore loser, Stark. Get good.” But he was grinning broadly, bumping shoulders with Tony when he made jokes, and generally seemingly like he was having a good time. So even though his eyes were getting dry from not blinking enough during the races and even though it seemed like he’d plateaued on improving his racing skills, Tony just kept asking to play again. It felt good.

Domestic, even. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Senior year is... going.


End file.
